


Deliver Us from Evil, Part I: Mortality

by AleineSkyfire



Series: Deliver Us from Evil [1]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, DYIN, Emotional Roller Coaster, Friendship, Gatiss!Mycroft, Gen, Good vs. Evil, Granada-esque characters, Holmes!torture, Multi, Novel, Torture, Violence, canon-compatible, h/c, heroic!Watson
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-29
Updated: 2013-05-26
Packaged: 2017-12-06 22:00:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 26,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/740619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AleineSkyfire/pseuds/AleineSkyfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes and Professor Moriarty did not meet man-to-man until the April of 1891. But what if their live game of chess had culminated several months before Reichenbach?<br/>Lonely and desperate for challenges, Great Detective is on a swift road to self-destruction, and no one can convince him to stop. But when a murderer backed by the Professor becomes the target of Holmes's retribution, the detective's lack of self-preservation backfires spectacularly.<br/>Now, Sherlock Holmes's time is running out. Victory—and Holmes's fate—is up to the people he considers his family, and they are up against the greatest criminal mastermind the world has ever known…</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Valley of the Shadow

**Author's Note:**

> So... I figured it was about time to start uploading fics here. And what better way to start than with my magnus opus, as it were? So, ladies and gentlemen, here, for the first time, is my novel Mortality in full, bonus material and all (although still unfinished). Please enjoy! (And review!)

_“I have been in the Valley of Fear. I am not out of it yet.”_

—Birdy Edwards

 

     I have never liked the dark.

     It serves its purpose as a tool, a cover under which I may slip when I must traverse London unnoticed, but, beyond that, darkness and I have no kinship. The night is the realm of the lawbreaker and the evildoer, and it is my business to shine light into that blackness and reveal such men. I have no kinship with the dark.

     Rather, I did not until now, for darkness now comprises my very existence.

     It is deep, penetrating, infinite. It pushes up against my body, thrums in my ears, sets its hands about my throat, seeps into my mind.

     A living thing, then, this darkness—a presence all of its own, not a mere absence of light. Even now I can feel it clawing at my mental faculties, filling my head with its harsh whispers. I cannot hold out forever

_(Sherlock Holmes must hold out, he wouldn’t give up, am I still that man?)_

     this captivity shall break me

 _(God, make these voices stop,_ please, _let my mind stop just this once, just let it be_ quiet _)_

     Watson shall not come in time

_(my dear fellow, hurry, I need you, I need you so desperately, forgive me, I am so sorry)_

     he shall not come at all

_(no, he must, he always does, he shan’t abandon me to this, he cannot)_

     I shall die here in the dark

 _(let me die, then, it’s too much, I fear life now more than death, I can’t keep on going, I_ cannot _)_

     alone and forgotten

_(Watson wouldn’t, Mycroft, Lestrade, they must come, please, hurry)_

     a fragmented shell of a man before the end. 

_(dear Father in Heaven, just make it_ stop _)_

     Something rises in my throat… I hear a whimper. My own voice. _Fragmented shell_. I am broken already. Dear God, I am _broken._

     I hear a sound from beyond the blackness—or do I imagine it? My brain—feverish, I think—has conjured up so many noises in this deafening silence. No, it is a real sound, for I recognise the door’s creak as it opens. Light abruptly floods in to replace the darkness, and I wearily raise manacled hands to shield my eyes, lest they go blind. Just this simple action drains what strength I have left from my arms.

     A tall silhouette looms in the doorway, kindly casting its shadow over me. I cannot see the face, but the slow turning of the head from side to side leaves no doubt even in my drugged mind. A chill ripples sluggishly down my spine.

     “Inject him,” the man orders in a soft, precise voice.

     After long four years of conflict, at last we meet, and I am not even granted the dignity of standing face to face, unfettered and strong. I am already fragile and trembling, a shadow of my former self—need I be injected with still more drugs? How much further can they break an already-broken man?

_(do you wish to break me open, see the pieces of my mind, can you put me back together?)_

     I curl up, as much as I am able,

 _(just_ stop, _won’t you, why must you keep poisoning me, does it satisfy you to see me like this?)_

     into a ball in the only show of resistance I can manage. I receive a kick to my shins for my effort, and I bite back a cry, my lip already split and scabbed from many such bites. Rough hands pry my knees inexorably away from my chest, prevailing over my feeble attempt to writhe away from the touch. The coarse chuckle as my left arm is yanked straight out sounds so far away.

_(so very far, yet he can still hurt me)_

     Tie the tourniquet, find the vein, pierce the skin, press down the piston. How many times have I administered this ritual to myself?

     I gasp as the needlepoint enters my arm, for though I have followed this procedure countless times in using my seven-per-cent solution, never did it truly hurt as I did it. Not in the manner that it hurts now, and it does _hurt_. Brief, clean stab somehow brings every nerve in my body alive, slowly burning me from the inside out.

_(I’ve burned before, survived an inferno, I don’t think I can do it again, I don’t think I can do it again)_

     “Raise him,” the voice murmurs, its very softness more unsettling than any shout.

     _The Professor._ So long ago it seems, since I first heard that title from the lips of a dying man, a police informant shot for his treachery to his gang. Thus began the work of a lifetime to bring justice to a man whose hands were stained with the blood of hundreds, perhaps thousands. So very long ago… almost an eternity. That was another man’s existence, I think, not mine.

     Not mine. 

     Sherlock Holmes would never let himself break, would never let himself be taken down so easily in the first place. I am not that man. I am not.

     Sherlock had his Watson. I have no one. I am alone. I am no one. I am alone.

     _“Those dark hours when the powers of evil are exalted.”_

     The words spring out of nowhere in my mind as I am roughly dragged to my feet by two pairs of strong hands. (I can’t even find it in me to be indignant any longer—it’s merely routine, after all. Perhaps Sherlock Holmes would be indignant, but I am not he.) I recognise that I _should_ know from whence those words came, but the memory floats just beyond my grasp, taunting my inability to pull my faculties together and seize it.

     _Those dark hours_ …

     How terribly fitting.

     This, then, is the end of the game.


	2. Of Clients and Concerns

**_Two months earlier:_ **

     “I beg your pardon, but are you Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the private consulting detective?”

     Sherlock Holmes halted on his doorstep and turned to see a younger man staring up at him from the sidewalk. _Early twenties, only child, wealthy, banking trade, steady and sensible, slightly romantic, played rugby in university, lives in West Norwood, engaged to be married_. And he wore deep mourning.

     Holmes nodded. “I am. And your name, sir?”

     “Victor Savage.” The youth hastily tipped his hat. “Mr. Holmes, may I speak with you? It is quite important.”

     Holmes unlocked the door, opened it, and gestured inside. “Do come in, Mr. Savage.” The other man stepped in and Holmes followed, shutting the door after them. “My condolences on your recent loss.”

     “How did you know it was…” Young Savage looked down and saw the legal papers protruding from his coat. “Ah.” He looked back up, his cornflower blue eyes rueful. “I see. Thank you.”

     Mrs. Hudson entered the hallway from the kitchen, hurrying to take Savage’s hat and coat. “Pardon me, Mr. Holmes. I did not realise you had a visitor.”

     “It’s quite all right, Mrs. Hudson,” Holmes assured her. “Follow me, Mr. Savage?” Once inside the sitting room upstairs, he settled into his armchair and steepled his fingers.  “Now, how may I be of service to you?”

     Savage had declined a seat and was now pacing the rug between the fireplace and the table in a state of considerable agitation. “It is my uncle, Mr. Holmes—my half-uncle, you understand. My father has just died, and his stepbrother, Mr. Culverton Smith, desires more than the tidy sum Father left him.” 

     “Surely you would be better off consulting your lawyer than a detective?”

     Savage shook his pale blond head. “There is more to it than that, Mr. Holmes. You see, I have reason to believe that Culverton is engaged in… less than legal activities.”

     “Indeed?”

     The young man nodded. “Culverton’s father was a man who made his wealth in shipping, but most of his fortune was lost to gambling and poor investment. The only thing Culverton was really left with was a plantation in Sumatra. It was quite irksome to him, for he is a profound student of pathology, though he holds no degree.”

     “Not even a Bachelor of Science?”

     “No, he… he hadn’t the money to finish university. He’s had to scrape together what he could to continue his studies. For a time, it seemed as though his management of the Sumatran plantation would pay off. Then disease struck, devastating his workforce. He had the opportunity to witness a tropical illness firsthand, but little good it did him. He had to sell off the plantation and return to London. That was a few months ago. Now Father’s dead and left him quite enough to live off of, but Culverton isn’t content with that.”

     Holmes held up a hand. “My dear sir, you still have not explained how you believe your uncle to be criminally connected.”

     “I know, Mr. Holmes—I was just coming to that. You see, I’ve heard rumours at my club—from two lads who are courageous or foolish enough to brave the East End just for thrills—that people have been dying there from rare diseases. Of course, in that part of town, it’s nothing new, but these cases seem to be isolated and quite acute, killing the victims in just a couple of days. And they did not start until just a little bit after Culverton had returned home. Now, surely, Mr. Holmes, that cannot be coincidence.”

     “Perhaps, perhaps not, but I do deplore coincidence.” Holmes frowned over the tips of his fingers. “You believe Culverton Smith to be experimenting with the immigrant population to study the results?”

     Savage hesitated, grimacing. Holmes wordlessly proffered his cigarette case, and the younger man gratefully accepted a cigarette and inhaled the smoke once before answering. “Culverton, unlike his father, is a practical man, with a scientific bent that approaches cold-bloodedness. I believe that he would, ha, well, take a pinch of the latest vegetable alkaloid himself simply to document the effects properly.” He paused in his pacing and glanced sideways at Holmes.

     The detective shook his head, equally amused and annoyed. “I recognise the allusion, Savage, and that was merely another man’s opinion of me. I would never treat myself or any friend of mine in such a manner.”

     Savage smiled ruefully and gave a little nod. “My apologies, Mr. Holmes. But, you see, I don’t really have a reason to _disbelieve_ that Culverton would commit such deeds. Why, even recently, I visited a pub with him, and he said something about London being an excellent place to study Asiatic diseases, far removed from their native lands. I think he was, well, in his cups, and the drink had rather loosened his tongue.” 

     “Do you remember his exact words? It may be important.”

     The young man blushed and looked down. “I’m ashamed to say that he was not the only one of us whose judgement was impaired by spirits. That is really all that I can remember.” 

     Holmes’s eyebrows drew together. “Hum, that is really too bad.”

     Desperation flooded Savage’s robust features. “Do look into it, Mr. Holmes. You’ll be handsomely rewarded if only you can put my mind at ease one way or another. With the possibility of my relative’s being a murderer and the reality of his desire for more of my father’s estate, I fear for my very life.”

     “Quite so. Very well, Mr. Savage, I shall look into your problem for you, and I think I need not warn you to be on your guard. Be quite conscious of all that passes to you in food, drink, and post. Poison is a woman’s weapon, but your relative may be ample proof that the device is not exclusive to the fairer sex.”

     Savage lifted his chin. “I shall take the utmost care. Thank you, Mr. Holmes. I feel quite better already, and it truly is an honour to meet you.” He offered his hand, and Holmes took it and shook it firmly. “I first read of you in _Beeton’s Christmas Annual_ , and I’ve been following your career ever since. I must confess to being a great admirer of your work—Emily, my fiancée, jests that I am obsessed, but, really, it is quite marvellous. To think that it is possible to deduce a man’s life story merely by his clothes and appearance!”

     Holmes felt his face flush with pleasure, sincerely flattered. “It is nothing, I assure you. Quite a shallow trick that anyone can learn if they apply themselves.”

     Savage smiled faintly. “I _have_ been applying myself for three years, Mr. Holmes, and I trust I am no duller witted than the average Londoner. You, sir, possess a gift, which the rest of us poor mortals simply do not.”

     Holmes said nothing, but a small smile flitted across his lips.

     “Well, I shall be going, then.” Savage slapped his card down upon the table. “Good day, Mr. Holmes, and good hunting.”

     Holmes remained in his chair as the client departed, and took his cherrywood pipe down from the mantle. He contemplated using it for a few moments, then decided against it and stood. He lit a cigarette instead and hurried downstairs and outside without pausing to grab his greatcoat. The little Irregular on-duty today was the aptly named Kelly, and he scampered over from the nearby shoeshine stand when Holmes called.

     “Oi, Mr. ‘Olmes, yew be wantin’ Wiggins?”

     “That I do, my lad, and tell him he’s needed immediately.”

     Kelly’s green eyes went wide. “Cor, ‘s it murder, Mr. ‘Olmes?” He had been with the Baker Street Irregulars for but a year, being only nine years of age.

     “Quite possibly. Now scarper!”

     “Yessir!” 

     Holmes shoved his free hand into his pocket and watched the boy run off. It had been ten years since he’d literally stumbled across Davy Wiggins and hired him as an informant. Then it was the boy’s brother, then the brother’s friend, then Davy’s two friends, and, in the space of half a year, Sherlock Holmes had acquired a young detective force that numbered a full dozen.

     The Twelve Apostles, the Yarders called them, following that upstart amateur the same way the real Apostles had followed Christ.

     One corner of Holmes’s mouth pulled back. Not quite accurate, but amusing. The moniker stuck, still applying to the original twelve Irregulars who were now all grown to manhood. Three were in the Scotland Yard Constabulary, four were apprenticed out to tradesmen, two were cabbies (and swung around Baker Street often in hopes of transporting their former employer), two more drifted about and did odd jobs, and the old ringleader… Well, Davy Wiggins outshone them all, as everyone knew he would.

     Wiggins still held his position as Holmes’s lieutenant, overseeing the operations of the current Irregulars, which now stood at forty-nine boys aged from eight to twenty-one years. Wiggins aspired to be a private consulting detective himself, though his focus was set solely and realistically on aiding the members of his own class. He himself had risen, through education out of Holmes’s own pocket, to speech and manners that indicated the middle class, but the boy’s heart lay with his people. Wiggins knew well that Scotland Yard simply did not have the men and the resources to bring light to the darker parts of London, so he was determined to bring justice himself to those who could not be protected otherwise.

     He was swift and cunning, and he had learned well. Holmes knew that his protégé would go far in life.

 

  

     An hour later found Wiggins in the sitting room of 221B, studying a particular entry in one of Holmes’s many commonplace books. The detective suppressed a sad smile at the young man’s solemnity, so far removed from the exuberant boy of bygone years.

     “Smith, Culverton,” Wiggins read aloud. “Quit University of London, etcetera, etcetera, monographs on Asiatic diseases—cor blimey, sounds like you—amateur student—of _course_ —further etcetera…” He looked up at his employer. “This is our potential murderer?”

     The affected middle-class inflection was impressive—only the astute observer would realise that Cockney was the boy’s native speech. “Quite so,” said Holmes past his cherrywood pipe. “You have not heard of him, then?”

     Wiggins shook his head and looked back down at the book. “13 Lower Burke Street,” he mused aloud. “I’ll get Wilkins, Thompson, O’Neal, and Saunders to watch him.” He rubbed at the back of his neck. “But I s’ppose you’ll want my adult contacts, too.”

     “Certainly—anyone you can get.”

     The young man nodded. “Right, then.” He shut the book decisively and stood. “Are you bringing the Doctor aboard this time?”

     “I shall ask him if he knows anything about Smith, but, beyond that, I shan’t trouble him. ‘My practice is never very absorbing,’ he says, but winter is coming on and sickness with it—no exotic diseases need apply. I shall be surprised if I can see him at all.”

     “But you’ll let him know about the case, at least?”

     Holmes frowned, to all appearances innocently puzzled. “Is there a reason why I should?”

     Wiggins’s blue eyes narrowed, and Holmes knew that they were about to re-enact an argument that had been nearly two years running. “I think he’d like to keep up with your cases.”

     “There is no need of it.”

     “Other than the fact that you’re friends? Oh, no, no need ’t’all!”

     Holmes was not grinding his teeth around his pipe. No, that would be a sign of irritation, and he refused to be irritated by his lieutenant’s tenacity in this dispute. “David Jonathan Wiggins, Dr. Watson has his own life to live, and I mine. I have worked without a partner before, and I am working without one now quite well.”

     “’Cept for that knife-wound you got, early August,” Wiggins persisted. “Did you ever tell the Doc about _that_?”

     Holmes nearly threw up his hands. “No! He had enough to worry about with a child on the way, and then the baby was stillborn! Why burden him with unnecessary concern after the fact?”

     The younger man sprung to his feet, all traces of refinement gone. “’E would’ve wanted t’ know! Sherlock ‘Olmes, yew’re not invincible, an’t seems ‘s’if Watson, Lestrade, ‘n’ me are the only people in the bloody world wot knows it!”

     Holmes spent a full ten seconds reining in his temper. “You forgot Mycroft,” he said at last, his calm voice belying the undeniable irritation roiling inside.

     “Fine, then, Mr. Mycroft, too.” Wiggins ran both hands through his golden hair and swore. 

     “Hold your tongue.”

     “I ain’t—” Wiggins closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and let it out—“I’m _not_ a child anymore.” He opened his eyes. “Soon’s I have an-y-thin’,” he continued in a dull tone, “I’ll let you know.” Holmes was left staring after an almost slammed-shut door.

     He yanked the pipe from his mouth and just stopped himself from doing something childish with it. He and Wiggins had been replaying that conversation ever since the Watsons’ wedding. After the initial bout of depression and loneliness, Holmes had recovered and thrown himself back into his work, completing eight cases between the wedding and the incident regarding The Woman. He requested or allowed Watson’s presence on many cases in the spring and summer of ’89, but it was in the autumn of that year that at last he realised his selfishness. 

     His dearest friend had a wife and a practise. He couldn’t continue to impose upon Watson’s time… and he couldn’t allow Watson to be wounded again. Certainly not now, with Mary in the picture. The debacle of a counterfeiting case that had ended in a Jezail to Watson’s thigh could not be repeated, no matter what deadly circumstances in which Holmes found himself. Watson might not survive next time, and Holmes knew _he_ would not if Watson did not.

_“Holmes!”  
_

_“Watson, shh, I’m here.”  
_

_“Holmes…”_

_“Shh, shh, I’m here, my dear fellow.”_

_“Holmes, please…”_

     Just the memory of nursing Watson on his presumed deathbed still had the power to rattle Holmes. He glared down at the traitorous trembling of his hands and willed them to stop. Setting down his pipe, he raised his forefinger to his lips. No, involving Watson in a possible poison case was out of the question, but surely no harm could come of visiting Paddington Street? Merely to check up on the Watsons and to ask after Culverton Smith?

     Holmes felt his gaze drawn to the armchair opposite his that stood empty so often these days. After nearly two years, he still missed Watson’s constant presence, sometimes fiercely so. He shook his head at himself and hurried to depart.

     The wind had picked up, and grey clouds rolled across the sky, a promise of rain to come by nightfall. Holmes turned up his coat collar and hurried northeast for Paddington, hoping that the Irregulars assigned to Smith would have the sense to get out of the rain once it hit. Over the past decade, he had had many cases of sickness and injuries in his detective force, from sprained ankles and broken bones to influenza and pneumonia. As a general rule, now, the Irregulars were required to hurry out of danger’s way no matter what. Watson had given the order, and Wiggins enforced it—any boys reckless with their health and safety were taken off the case or banned from the next one.

     Holmes quirked a brief smile, heartened a bit. He had developed an efficient force, and he was proud of it.  He was proud of his boys.

     Somewhere in the distance, thunder shook the air, and the detective quickened his pace. He sensed that he would be taking a cab home.


	3. The Players of the Game

     A knock sounded on the door.

     Mary Watson opened her mouth to call for the maid, then sighed and rose from her very comfortable sofa to open the door herself. She knew that knock well. “Sherlock, good afternoon! Do come in!”

     “Good afternoon to you, my dear Mary.” Sherlock Holmes smiled as he stepped inside, his keen grey eyes flitting over her and doubtless deducing that she had a headache and was recovering from a cold. He hung up his own greatcoat and hat and rubbed his gloved hands together. “You really should consider hiring a new maid, you know, if you have to open the door yourself to visitors.” 

     Mary laughed softly, then coughed. “I know it and John knows it, but we haven’t the heart to dismiss Mary Jane.”

     Sherlock raised a sardonic eyebrow and opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off by the belated appearance of Mary Jane herself. “Mum?” she said, mortified.

     “Never mind, dear,” Mary assured her. “You may return to your duties.”

     “Yes, mum. Sorry, mum.” The girl curtsied and hastily disappeared.

     Mary’s blue gaze slid over to meet Sherlock’s grey one. “Don’t, Sherlock,” she warned.

     “I beg your pardon?”

     She stifled a cough. “You had something poised on the tip of your tongue—I could see it. Whatever it was, you needn’t bother.” She returned to the sitting room, detective in tow.

     “Mary, dear, I congratulate you on your growing powers of perception.”

     “Thank you, but the simple fact is I know you too well.”

     He chuckled, murmuring, “Quite so,” then sobered. “How are you?”

     Mary’s hand rose instinctively to an abdomen that was devoid of new life once more, despite two months having passed. As remembrance came, she lowered the hand. “A headache and a persistent cough, as you can see.”

     He took the errant hand in his own, and she could not help but marvel afresh at how gentle his touch could be. This was not Sherlock Holmes as the world at large knew him, and she was immeasurably grateful that he had allowed her into his private life and into his heart. “That is not what I meant,” he said quietly.

     She lowered her gaze, unable to meet that penetrating gaze any longer. “I am… managing. As is John.” She glanced back up. “Thank you for taking him with you on that case the other week. He needed the diversion.” 

     “And you?”

     She smiled briefly. “I listened to his tale afterwards, so we both benefited from it.”

     The grey eyes softened. “I am glad to hear it.”

     She coughed again, the spell longer and harder this time. When she had finished, she realised Sherlock was watching her with concern. “John _does_ know that your cough is that bad?”

     She nodded. “Merely London. And the fall air. The combination with a cold is never pleasant.” She cleared her throat. “I’ve been living in Britain for fifteen years now, and I still seem not to have gotten over India.”

     Sherlock’s lips twitched. “You and John are warm-blooded creatures, thanks to your experiences in tropic climes. I, on the other hand, should undoubtedly be ill in the constant heat that would suit the two of you most comfortably.” 

     “Sherlock Holmes, are you calling yourself _cold_ -blooded?” He shrugged his shoulders with a rueful grin, and she laughed. “You poor thing. Ah, I am sorry John can’t see you.”

     “I had considered that possibility.” 

     She nodded again, sympathetic. “His schedule is full for the next two weeks—that time of year again.” That time of year that even she did not much see her husband… “You are on a case?”

     “Yes, but I merely wished to know if he had heard of the man I am investigating, a Mr. Culverton Smith.”

     “Culverton Smith,” she repeated, rolling the “r” around her tongue. It was a holdover from her two years in Scotland that she had never quite shaken off, especially now, with a fully Scottish husband who lapsed into a definite brogue when he was tired. “I shall ask him over tea.”

     Sherlock nodded. “My thanks, Mary. And now, if you’ll pardon me, I must be off.”

     She sighed with pretended petulance. “Very well. It is never a social call with you.”

     “I’ve made social calls here before.”

     She shook her head in amusement. “No, you haven’t. The only time you come here without being on a case is when we ask you specifically, and that is not a social call.”

     He glanced heavenward with affected saintly patience and said, “Very well. Next time t’will be a social call.”

     “Excellent.” She smiled.

     He shook his head. “Goodbye, Mary. Do give my regards to your husband.”

     “I shall. Goodbye, Sherlock, and good luck.” 

     Mary did not understand why, as she watched him leave, proud and erect in the grey drizzle of October rain, she felt a sudden stab of fear.

 

 

     By the end of the day, Holmes had received thorough intelligence of Smith’s weekend rounds in the East End from the Irregulars. The fact that his Saturday evenings were spent in opium dens ostensibly without his ever using the drug himself was quite suggestive. _And if Smith is infecting victims on Saturdays,_ Holmes mused, _he must return to the vicinity at some point during the next week to observe the results_. _But **why**?_

     There had to be some motive greater than the desire to study, if Smith was indeed the culprit of all these deaths. What was it? _That’s the question that beats in my brain like a hammer_.

     The detective could think of several reasons, all of them twisted and depraved. No matter what the motive, the fact was that such cold-blooded murder was no less than the work of a monster. Holmes knew well the depths to which humanity could sink, but to be reminded so vividly of those depths was never pleasant. He cast a longing eye at his beloved Stradivarius, but baring his soul in music would have to wait.

     He picked up a borrowed medical magazine and flipped through it. Outside, rain lashed at the windows in a violent staccato—and no sign of it letting up any time soon. _Ah_. “The Grim Reaper of Southeast Asia,” by Culverton Smith.

     Holmes took up his trusty black clay pipe and settled in to study his opponent.

 

 

     “All right, now for it!”

     Two figures, one large and one small, dashed across the street from the shelter of an overhanging roof and burst into The Crooked Arrow Inn. The smaller figure dashed off his bowler hat, letting the rainwater drain to the floor, and smashed it firmly back onto his head. “Not bad timing!”

     “It’s still a mystery to me how you can keep up with Bradstreet, Lestrade,” a voice boomed out from one of the tables.

     “Don’t try to solve it!” the larger of the newcomers advised, shaking out his peaked cap. “It’ll hurt even your bright head, Gregson!”

     The smaller man, one Inspector Geoffrey Lestrade, shook his head and made for the table around which several other Scotland Yarders were clustered. “Evening, all,” he greeted, taking a seat beside young Sergeant Stanley Hopkins. The lad was five-and-twenty years of age but cursed with one of those faces that made him appear much younger, a fact which did little to inspire confidence amongst the civil population. He was one of the very few junior detectives, however, allowed to socialise so much with the older generation, who recognised his dedication and intelligence.

     “Sirs,” Hopkins nodded respectfully.

     “Lestrade, Bradstreet.” Gregson lifted his tankard in salute.

     Peter Athelney Jones merely gave a wave before he took a swig from his bottle, and Harold Morton smiled his greeting. Alec MacDonald grinned up from where he was lounging with the back of his chair against another table and his feet propped up on theirs. Bradstreet lowered his giant frame into the chair on the other side of Lestrade and folded his huge hands over the tabletop. “So? What goes on on this lovely London night?”

     “Ferret Face didn’t tell you?” Gregson wondered. Lestrade glanced heavenward and found himself wishing once again that Dr. Watson hadn’t been quite so descriptive in _A Study in Scarlet_. “Whom you see about you are those who’ve been called in tonight to meet somebody coming in from the Home Office.”

     The atmosphere around the table instantly sobered. Bradstreet turned to Lestrade.  “Do you know who?”

     Lestrade nodded slowly, taking a cigarette from his coat. He needed a smoke every time he merely _thought_ about the man, much less spoke of him. “He’s one of us,” he said enigmatically. “So whatever you do, _don’t_ stand in respect when you see him. He’s one of us.”

     “Inspector, you’re making me nervous,” Hopkins said candidly.

     “You should be, lad.” Lestrade nodded and drew in the smoke. “You should be.”

     Jones frowned. “If it’s got Lestrade spooked, you know it’s bad.”

     “Not _bad_.” Lestrade chuckled nervously. “Well, no, that’d depend on your definition of ‘bad.’”

     “Good god, the man needs a drink,” Gregson muttered.

     “It’s just… dash it, how did that Stamford bloke put it?” Lestrade took another drag from the cigarette. “ _It is not easy to express the inexpressible_.”

     Hopkins eyebrows shot skyward. “That’s from the Doctor’s first story—his friend describing Mr. Holmes…”

     Morton drummed his fingers on the table. “So we’ve got a Sherlock Holmes on the Force, and nobody knew about it?”

     Lestrade sighed—now _there_ was a leap in logic Mr. Holmes would have deplored. “Just wait and see.” 

     One pint and two cigarettes later, Lestrade was feeling fortified enough to greet their visitor. The man slipped into the tavern so quietly and inconspicuously that Lestrade and Gregson were the only two to notice him. Then, next thing the former rivals knew, the newcomer was before their table and removing his bowler hat. “Good evening.”

     The other five Yarders all started in their seats and turned to gape at the man—Gregson was also gaping. Lestrade relished the sight. “Evening, Patterson,” he drawled. “Sit, man, you look half done-in.”

     Patterson nodded and took the one empty chair, between Gregson and Hopkins—the latter was staring unabashed at the newcomer. Lestrade almost chuckled at the lad’s fishlike gape. “It’s all right,” said Patterson. “I know—it’s odd.”

     Jones snorted in disbelief. “Odd? _Odd_ doesn’t _begin_ to cover it!”

     Patterson ran a hand through his dark hair and gave a smile that did not reach his ice-blue eyes. “Very well, it’s unnatural. I’ve heard that, too.”

     “Bloody unbelievable, more like,” Morton muttered, taking one long gulp of his ale. 

     “Sir,” Hopkins began, tentatively, “you don’t know if you possess any kinship with Mr. Sherlock Holmes, do you?”

     “I’m as far from the Anglo-Saxon gentry as the rest of you, yourself excepted, Sergeant.”

     “That’s not what I asked,” Hopkins returned a bit more boldly.

     “There’s no relation that we know of,” Lestrade interposed. “The man looks as if he’s the blooming twin of Sherlock Holmes. Let’s leave it at that, shall we?”

     “Wait a moment,” said Gregson, holding up one fat hand. “Lestrade, how the devil is it nobody but you knows about him?”

     “Gregson, use those brains you’re so proud of,” Lestrade fired back, feeling good for doing so. “Patterson was sent by the _Home Office_.”

     “Mr. _Mycroft_ Holmes,” Bradstreet said in understanding. “ _Now_ we’re getting somewhere.”

     “Oh, good Lord,” Patterson murmured. Lestrade couldn’t blame him.

     “ _Moving on_ ,” the little detective said authoritatively. When he used that particular tone, even Gregson would stop to pay attention. “Patterson?”

     The other man nodded. “Thank you, Lestrade. MacDonald, you once worked a case involving Professor James Moriarty, am I correct?” 

     The temperature of the room dropped by several degrees. The Aberdeen inspector slowly lowered his feet and raised his chair. “Back in January ’88, aye.” 

     Patterson nodded again, from behind laced fingers. _We mightn’t have a family tree drawn up for him to know for certain,_ Lestrade thought, _but don’t tell_ me _he’s not related to Sherlock Holmes_ somehow. “I need a personal report on that case from you,” Patterson continued.

     “You can access my rep—”

     “Not the official report, MacDonald—I want a _personal_ record from you. I’m afraid it’s nearly three years late and the details are doubtless fogged in your mind, but I need whatever you can give me.” 

     MacDonald traded an uncertain glance with Bradstreet. “All right…”

     “Jones—” Patterson’s eerily familiar gaze turned to the man whose fame through Watson’s stories was now even more dubious than Lestrade’s or Gregson’s—“your Red-headed League case was thought to have involved Moriarty?”

     “Mr. Holmes’s speculation, only, though mind you I’m a bit more open to it now than I once was.”

     “Should’ve been all along,” MacDonald muttered into his mug. “Man’s a bloomin’ _prodigy_ , Jones.”

     “Sherlock Holmes, detective genius forever and ever, world without end, Amen,” Hopkins intoned. His manner was solemn, but Lestrade caught a hint of a wink from the lad to MacDonald. He chewed down a smile—MacDonald and Hopkins were both young and Sherlock Holmes’s most devoted admirers, John Watson aside.

     Patterson’s thin, aquiline features twisted in irritation. “ _Gentlemen_ ,” he said, for all the world sounding akin to a mother rebuking her sons. “Jones, I’d like a personal record from yourself, as well.”

     Morton frowned. “You’re investigating Moriarty?”

     “I am.” 

     “The Commissioner assigned him specially,” Lestrade added.

     Gregson rubbed at his temples, and Lestrade could not help sympathising—this entire thing was already giving him a blooming headache, as well. “Let me get this straight,” Gregson protested: “we’re declaring war on the Professor? _Now_? After all this time?”

     “Yes,” Patterson said simply.

     The larger man eyed him. “You’ve been on his trail for a long time.”

     “Most of my career, yes.” 

     Gregson snorted. “No wonder nobody knows you. You’d be, what, late thirties? At the oldest? So some fifteen years or more.”

     Blinking, Hopkins shook his head. “Wait a minute—was he tapped _straight out of university_?”

     “ _That_ is a long story that needn’t be told now.” Patterson’s tone said that it would not be told later, either.

     “I repeat: why now?” Gregson persisted. “Why after all these years? _Our_ Mr. Holmes first heard the Professor’s name back in ’86, but I’ll wager a year’s salary that _Whitehall’s_ Mr. Holmes has known about Moriarty longer.”

     Patterson leaned forward, his diffidence abruptly replaced by zealous excitement, and Lestrade shivered at the likeness to Sherlock Holmes. It was simply wrong: _no_ man should resemble another so much outside of twin-hood. “Because at last we have a _chance_ ,” said Patterson. The chips of ice that served for his eyes glittered. “We have a chance to net this man as we’ve never had before.”

     “Because of Mr. Holmes,” said MacDonald.

     “Yes. Just look at his case record for this past year—thirty-seven out of _forty-six_ he’s traced back, one way or another, to Moriarty! Until now, we’ve never had anyone in Scotland Yard or connected to it with the brilliance needed to match Moriarty’s genius. But now we have a private detective—”

     “Private _consulting_ detective,” Hopkins corrected automatically. 

     “—private _consulting_ detective,” Patterson agreed, “who is slowly closing in on one of the greatest criminal masterminds London has ever seen! If _anyone_ can defeat the Professor, it’s Holmes!”

     “Now, wait a moment,” Morton interjected. His dark eyes mirrored the concern in his fellow detectives’ expressions around the table. “Holmes is a _civilian_ , Patterson. _We’re_ the professionals, even if we’re not on his level, intellectually— _we’re_ the ones who are supposed to be taking the risks.”

     “Right,” Gregson agreed, turning to Lestrade. “Lestrade, where does _Mycroft_ Holmes stand on this issue?”

     Lestrade sighed. “Mr. Mycroft Holmes is as diffident as his brother is energetic. I think he’s genuinely concerned for his little brother—” even in the sober atmosphere, several of the men could not help but snort at that description of the amateur who ran circles around them—“but he’ll not interfere.”

     “As if he could hold him back, anyway,” Bradstreet pointed out. “Mr. Mycroft may be high up in the Home Office, but Mr. Sherlock would defy the Queen herself to finish what he started, come hell or high water.”

     “Bradstreet!” Jones said sharply.

     “Did I say anything that _wasn’t_ true?” Bradstreet retorted.

     “Enough,” Gregson groaned. “Patterson, just tell me that you _won’t_ be using Sherlock Holmes in this war Whitehall is apparently declaring on Moriarty.”

     “I shall go no further in using him than you yourselves have.”

     If Patterson had abruptly announced his intention to take up a life of crime, he could not have cut them all more swiftly. Silence hung heavy over the table, the only focal point of life anywhere in the room—none but the police had dared venture out into the driving rain merely to get a drink.

     At last, Lestrade swallowed his pride and spoke—very, very softly. “All right, you’re right. God knows you’re right. But, Patterson, the stakes have never been so high before—it was quite small fry with us in the past, that Birlstone mix-up excepted.” He met the taller man’s gaze squarely, his tone now deadly quiet. “And if Sherlock Holmes comes to any harm because _you_ placed him in harm’s way… by George, I’ll see you kicked out of the Yard so swift that you shan’t even know what is happening ‘til you hit the pavement. Are we clear on that?”

     Patterson might have been carved from marble, so emotionless was his pale face. “Perfectly, Lestrade.”

 

 

     Holmes rose from his armchair and stoked the fire—no warm-blooded creature was he, but the night was growing chill even for him. He poured himself his third cup of coffee and returned to his seat with the fourth of Culverton Smith’s monographs. The topics themselves were fascinating—diseases, endemics, and pandemics—but the writing itself and the passion behind it…

     He wanted to meet the man just to shake his hand for his genius. These glimpses into Smith’s calculating mind were fascinating. 

     He had nothing as of yet that could condemn Smith as a murderer—the opium houses were the strongest support to young Savage’s fears, but that could not hold up in a court of law. The morrow would see the commencement of Holmes’s personal field investigation. Lestrade was right about one thing: sometimes, there was nothing like good old-fashioned tracking.

     _Holmes, the sleuth-hound,_ Watson called him on occasion.

     _Well_. Holmes’s lips curved upward. _I have a scent to follow, at least_. Every ounce of his instinct agreed with Savage’s reckoning, but the logician built his cases up of facts, not feelings.

     _Tomorrow_. With that in mind, Holmes cast down the monograph and picked up his violin case. He was not surprised when the tune that came to his fingers was the “Dead March.”

 

 

     With Patterson’s departure, the other seven Yarders breathed a collective sigh of relief. “I need another drink,” Jones moaned. “That man gives me the shivers.”

     Lestrade was down to his sixth cigarette for the evening. “Hum,” he said noncommittally.

     “Must admit,” Gregson drawled, “I’ve always wondered what it would be like to have Sherlock Holmes as one of us. Now I don’t have to wonder, and I don’t like it one bit.”

     “It is disturbing,” Lestrade agreed.

     “ _Disturbing_?” Hopkins echoed incredulously. “The man is bloody full of himself!”

     Morton shook his head. “No, lad, he’s _arrogant_. There’s a difference.” 

     “Full of himself or arrogant,” said MacDonald, “he’ll get people killed. And to think that I once thought Mr. _Holmes’s_ obsession with Moriarty was bad.” He shook his head solemnly.

     “Mr. Holmes isn’t police or military—he’s a vigilante,” Lestrade pointed out. “He isn’t one to sacrifice _anyone’s_ wellbeing but his own. Remember the counterfeit case of ’88?”

     “Tore himself to pieces with guilt, he did,” Bradstreet mused. “I don’t think he looked the Doctor in the eye for months.”

     “Then along came Miss Morstan September of that year,” Gregson added. “Wouldn’t be a bit surprised if Holmes ended up _glad_ she took Watson out of the line of fire.”

     “Thank God she did,” Morton said seriously. “I’d hate to think of Holmes now without Watson.”

     “Flip that coin, Morton,” Lestrade said, _sotto voce_. “I’d hate to think of Watson without Holmes.” The other man stared at him. Lestrade sighed and shook his head. “You didn’t know Mr. Holmes very well in the early days. He was… well, let’s just say he was _very_ young. I know you’ve all heard nightmare tales about the cases before Watson, but the fact is that Sherlock Holmes in his early twenties was a young man I would not have wagered on reaching his thirtieth year. Given the right circumstances, he could revert to such a state, and then where would we be if something happened to him? And just think of what it would do to Watson.”

     Lestrade, Gregson, and Morton were the three present who’d known Watson from that first year, 1881. They all remembered the quiet, solemn young soldier disillusioned with life. Lestrade had not known Watson before Holmes, but it did not take a genius to realise that the amateur detective had given the wounded doctor a fresh purpose in life. Things were different now, and Watson had a wife and practise, too, but… The little detective shuddered to think of the warm, spirited John Watson suddenly bereft of his closest friend. That was the stuff nightmares were made of. 

     And with Sherlock Holmes being made a player in this upcoming war against London’s greatest crime syndicate, it was a scenario within the realm of possibility.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The entire sequence with the Yarders is still one of my favorites—writing those boys is so much fun! Lestrade and Gregson can be so snarky, and Hopkins and MacDonald (VALL) can be so fanboy! And I just plain loved writing Lestrade, period (as always, but this time was especially enjoyed). ^_^
> 
> Patterson, on the other hand… Patterson is interesting no matter which way you look at him—he was the inspector chosen to take down Professor Moriarty. That's special. He's got to be special… And I'm proud of the cut that he made at the other Yarders when they got concerned about Holmes's wellbeing, and then Lestrade's retort. Ouch. Aragonite made a very good point about Holmes throughout her Sword for Defense series: the Yarders' guilt at Holmes's "death" to defeat Moriarty when it was their job to risk their lives for him, rather than the other way around. They ostensibly don't mind a civilian solving their cases for them (it gets the job done, and justice is served), but it's not the civilian's place to be risking his life for them.
> 
> As for Inspector Morton… yes, this is the same Morton as appears in DYIN. Watson calls him an "old friend," but it's the only time he ever appears in Canon. To explain the usage of that term, I have Morton as one of the few inspectors who'd known (somewhat well) Watson since his first year with Holmes.
> 
> And writing Holmes and Mary together was just lovely. I love Mary so much... I really do not like Holmes-and-Mary-dislike-each-other chemistry in stories, I must say. It's not merely non-canonical—it's UN-canonical: the little material that we see in the Canon points to them respecting and, yes, even liking each other. Holmes didn't lose his respect for Mary even when Watson told him about the engagement (Watson asks if Holmes is dissatisfied with his choice; Holmes does say "no").


	4. How Frail the Heart

     The envelope flap is unusually sharp and slices his skin.

     “Ah!” He raises the offended finger to his mouth and sucks at it briefly. The letter is removed and perused, a missive from one of the committee members. It is then laid aside, and no further thought is given to the minute line of red on his right forefinger.

 

 

     Conversations with Sherlock Holmes were bad enough, thanks to the man’s irritating predilection for pulling thoughts and events out of one’s head the way a magician pulled a rabbit out of his hat. And that wasn’t even mentioning the scathing sarcasm. Conversations with _Mycroft_ Holmes could be downright unnerving.

     Just Lestrade’s luck that he had to deal with both on a regular basis.

     The inspector could not help but marvel at the contrasts between the two brothers every time he met with Mr. Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock was six-foot-two, thin almost to the point of emaciation, and pale as porcelain, with soft black hair and sharp grey eyes that seemed to shift colour with his moods. Towering even over his younger brother, Mycroft was fully six-and-a-half feet in height, corpulent, and robust in complexion, with chestnut brown hair and grey eyes so pale that the irises seemed to disappear at times. Lestrade was one of the few Londoners who knew that Mycroft took after the father and Sherlock after the mother, though the brothers shared their father’s hawk-like nose and their mother’s high cheekbones.

     “I don’t like him, Mr. Holmes. Patterson, you understand.” When conversing with the Holmes brothers, candour was always the best tactic—they’d pull the words from your mouth, otherwise. “Inspector MacDonald believes that he’ll get people killed, and I agree.”

     Mycroft peered at the smaller man over the tips of his fingers. “I understand your sentiment, Lestrade, and I even agree with MacDonald’s assessment—but the fact is that we have no one else properly qualified to lead in this case. Even my brother has not had the experience with James Moriarty that Patterson has. Patterson is the one man in London who knows both sides of the conflict so intimately.”

     Lestrade rubbed the back of his neck. “I understand that, sir. But I don’t like it. People will die.”

     “An inevitable consequence of such a conflict,” the other said quietly.

     Lestrade shook his head. “I know that, sir. But I think that… more will die than as need to.”

     The large man nodded ponderously. “I shall be keeping a close watch on the proceedings, Inspector, Patterson included—of that, you may be assured.”

     The detective sighed. “Very well, sir. I shan’t waste your time further, then.” He rose to leave the office.

     “Inspector?”

     Lestrade turned half around again. “Yes?”

     “My brother has made it quite clear that Dr. Watson shall play a minimal role in this upcoming investigation.”

     It was said so calmly that a complete stranger would have thought the elder Holmes brother to be making a passing remark—Lestrade knew better. He read between the lines: Sherlock would be working without a bodyguard, and Mycroft was concerned. “I’ll keep an eye on him as much as I can, Mr. Holmes.” He did it those first four years before Watson; he could do it again.

     The government official’s stern face eased slightly. “Thank you, Inspector.”

 

 

     The younger of the Holmes brothers had entered opium dens before on investigations, but he never enjoyed it. There was nothing to enjoy in the sight of so many human beings, from the wealthy to the near destitute, lounging about in various stages of physical and mental vegetation. At least his own seven-per-cent solution of cocaine _stimulated_ rather than hampered his mental processes. And his usage of his drug was mere habit, not the addiction that led to so many poor souls being unable, in mind and body, to live without their drug.

     And yet…

     In the deepest part of his heart, he recognised himself in these people, knew that their fate could all too easily become his own. All he had to do was misjudge the dose of his injection… and the idea chilled him to his core. It was a notion he could never entertain for long.

     He sat in the shadows, disguised as the same decrepit old man that had once arrested John Watson’s attention whilst the good doctor had been on a mission to rescue a friend. Holmes sat in the shadows and watched Culverton Smith move amongst the addicts. Years later, in a remarkable pique of spite, Watson would restructure both Smith’s physical appearance and personality into that of a contemptible, middle-aged madman. But the truth was far removed from future stories of the as-of-yet-unborn _Strand Magazine_.

     Smith’s slicked black hair, keen dark eyes, and bronzed skin could almost have passed him off a native of his former home. Welsh or Breton ancestry, probably—certainly unlike the very Anglo-Saxon Victor Savage. And where Savage had borne himself with the easy grace of an athlete, Smith moved with the stealth of a shadow, though Holmes had no doubt that the man carried himself with the cold hauteur of an aristocrat in broad daylight. The detective wondered at first that his target did not bother to hide his identity, then realised there was no need—these people would not be able to pull any semblance of memory together to report to a policeman, much less testify in court. And the owner, no doubt, received a considerable sum for his cooperation.

_“There is a trap-door at the back of that building, near the corner of Paul’s Wharf, which could tell some strange tales of what has passed through it upon the moonless nights.”_

_“What! You do not mean bodies?”_

_“Aye, bodies, Watson. We should be rich men if we had £1000 for every poor devil who has been done to death in that den.”_

     Was Smith being paid to eliminate targets in these dens? Had this been Brittany, he would have suspected goods being smuggled alongside bodies on their way from Brittany to England to be buried. But this was the wrong side of the Channel…

     And it was a capital mistake to theorise without data.

     Holmes willed his mind to quiet, laced his fingers together, and hunched further down in his chair, his eyes never once leaving the amateur pathologist. Holmes followed Smith from den to den that night, changing costume each time. Five visits in all, and, in each of them, Smith had been close enough to several people to have injected or poked them with something poisonous. It was on the last visit that an incident occurred which briefly stilled Holmes’s heart.

     Smith stopped right before him and bent down. Holmes kept his eyes lowered, and maintained a steady stream of quiet, incoherent babble. He felt rather than saw Smith’s contemptuous smile, and the man reached down to pat his shoulder—it took considerable willpower not to flinch away from the touch. And then, Smith was gone.

     Holmes stared after him, a shiver tingling down his spine. Had he been discovered?

 

 

     After nearly a week of investigation, Sherlock Holmes had frustratingly little to show for it, certainly nothing that would hold up to a jury. A visit to Victor Savage in West Norwood was in order.

     The estate was expansive and grand, the kind of grounds intended to make one forget that the world’s largest metropolis lay less than a mile away. The house sat far back from the road, impressive in size and design. An old Georgian home, it must have been red brick when it was first built and had faded over time to a rust colour, though no less beautiful for it.

     _Men have killed for far less splendour_.

     The butler was old and undoubtedly an attachment to the Savage family from his youth.  The small, slight man’s lean face was wrinkled with sorrow—the average observer would have attributed it to the recent death of the elder Mr. Savage, but Holmes saw otherwise. The grief was a raw, bone-penetrating thing, and a knot formed in Holmes’s stomach. He wordlessly handed the old man his card, who took one look at it and nodded mournfully. “Mr. Savage has been expecting you,” the butler said quietly. “This way, please.”

     Holmes followed the man though an ornate hall whose trappings had not changed much in the past century, and up a grand staircase. His heart grew heavier with each step as he feared now the worst. At last, they halted at richly appointed bedchambers, and Holmes shut his eyes for a moment before entering.

     Victor Savage lay in the four-post bed, his emaciated frame dwarfed by the bedclothes. His pale skin gleamed with sweat, fever spots flushed his cheeks, and dark crust covered his lips. He was asleep, though the slumber was not restful—he tossed and mumbled unintelligibly.

     A physician rose from his post at the bedside to greet the detective. “Mr. Holmes, yes? Mr. Savage told me you would come. I am Dr. Ainstree.”

     The detective knew Ainstree by reputation, the greatest living authority upon tropical disease; he had not heard, however, that the doctor was in London. “Doctor, is it fatal?”

     The older man bowed his head. “I’m afraid it is, Mr. Holmes. I could possibly create an antidote, but such an action would take several days, and young Savage has been ill for nearly four. I estimate but a few more hours, if that. He shall not live to see the sunset.”

     Holmes felt a tightening in his chest as he neared the bed. The Grim Reaper was the one foe that, in the end, he could not defeat. “You were called in too late,” he said, _sotto voce_.

     “Yes. Mr. Holmes…” The detective turned at the other’s voice. “I know this disease by reputation; it is Asiatic. So tell me: how did a young English banker who never even ventures into the East End contract it?”

     Holmes turned back to regard his young client. “Have you heard of a Mr. Culverton Smith?”

     “Culverton Smith… ah, yes, the amateur pathologist of Sumatra.”

     “He is Savage’s half-uncle. Once Savage dies, he will inherit.”

     “Good heavens,” Ainstree breathed. “Have you any proof…”

     “Unfortunately not. Smith is very, very careful—but all my instincts tell me that he is to blame for this.”

     Savage stirred then, and his blue eyes opened, bright with fever. “Mr. Holmes,” he groaned.

     Holmes bent low over the young man. “Shh, I am here.”

     “Can you—have you—my uncle…”

     Holmes shook his head. “Not yet, Savage, but justice shall be done, I swear to you.”

     “So cool and green… the shade this time of year… monsters, though… horrible monsters lurking in the woods…” Savage covered his face with his hands, as if to shield his eyes from whatever horrors his mind beheld.

     Holmes watched, rubbing unconsciously at his chest where he felt a small twinge. The circumstances were so far removed, but the memory came, nevertheless…

     “Argh!” The invalid’s hands flew to his abdomen, where they clutched with spasmodic strength as he doubled over in torment. “Oh, God—Doctor!”

     Ainstree’s genteel face was pained as he leaned over the sickbed. “Sir, I’ve explained before,” he said over the cries. “I can sedate you with morphine, and you will die in your sleep; or you can remain fairly lucid but in pain.”

     “Dear God, help me!” the boy pleaded. “Emily! Oh, Emily!”

     “He is engaged,” Holmes murmured.

     “I was given to understand that,” the doctor nodded.

     “Mr. Holmes!” Savage’s right hand shot out and clutched convulsively at the detective’s left forearm, the lad’s blue eyes staring pleadingly up at the older man. “Mr. Holmes, tell her, please! Let her hear it from you! 

     “She shall.”

     “Tell her I’m sorry! Tell her I’m sorry… Oh, God in Heaven…” The eyes slid shut again, though the hand remained clinging to Holmes’s arm. He remained there, unmoving, until the hand slipped down and the chest slowed its rising and falling, and stopped altogether. Holmes gripped the lifeless wrist for a moment, then gently laid the hand over the still breast.

     _Automaton_ was a fine word to describe him just then. He felt numb, as if watching the entire sordid drama through someone else’s eyes. It was a broken, meaningless world that met his gaze.

     “Doctor, might I trouble you for a favour?” he heard himself whisper.

     “If I may be of service, I shall.” Ainstree reverently laid the coverlet over Victor Savage’s bloodless face, and Holmes felt his heart start to beat again.

     “I would like the medical community to know that Culverton Smith is under suspicion for questionable ethics. I want his reputation in tatters.” The coolness of Sherlock Holmes’s voice betrayed nary a hint of the sudden passion in his breast, and he turned to Ainstree with a grim smile. “If he is desperate, he shall slip up, and then he may be caught.”

     The doctor eyed him solemnly. “And if he discovers who is investigating him, he shall go after that man.”

     Holmes’s gaze intensified. “That is why I am depending upon you to create that antidote.”

     “I see.”

     “I do take precautions whenever possible.”

     “Of course.” Ainstree pondered a moment. “Very well, Mr. Holmes. I shall do as you say.” The doctor placed his hand on Holmes’s forearm. “But I urge you to take the utmost care.”

     _That is what Savage promised to do, and here he lies_. “I shall. Good day to you, Dr. Ainstree.” 

     “Good day, Mr. Holmes.”

     The detective chose to walk rather than drive to Norwood Station, his free hand firmly shoved into his pocket and his shoulders hunched. A bird chirped somewhere, and the autumn sun warmed the earth. It was wrong, this cheerfulness. It was all wrong.

     Even Holmes’s rational mind had never been able to reconcile a lovely, sunny day with a murder.

     Back in London—Kensington, to be precise—he stood in yet another lovely home and awaited Miss Emily Fitzwilliam, having learned the address of Savage’s fiancée from the butler. Memories pushed at the edge of his consciousness, clamouring to be released after twelve years of imprisonment. He resolutely ignored them and waited with a stance as stiff as stone.

     Watson had created the phrase “an experience of women which extends over many nations and three separate continents” for the recently published _The Sign of the Four_ , and Holmes could truthfully claim much the same experience. The two loveliest women he had ever met must have been Irene Norton and Lady Hilda Trelawney Hope, but Emily Fitzwilliam could not have been far behind. A petite young woman, she bore a strong resemblance to a flaxen-haired china doll. “Mr. Holmes,” she greeted, “what an honour to meet you! My fiancé holds you in the very highest regard. Do sit down!”

     “Miss Fitzwilliam, I prefer to stand,” Holmes said quietly.

     Her pretty face creased into a frown. “My dear sir, whatever is the matter?”

     He carefully emptied his mind of all but his task and said gently, “I fear I come bearing only grief for you. Mr. Victor Savage has just passed away.”

     All colour drained instantly from her already-pale face. “ _What?_ ” she gasped.

     “He contracted a rare illness.” A memory broke past his mental barriers, a voice shocked and anguished, crying out to Heaven in the hope to see some reason for a senseless death. “It was swift, and he suffered but little. He bade me tell you that he was sorry.”

     For all the appearance of physical fragility she bore, Emily Fitzwilliam must have been strong of spirit. The similarity between herself and Mary Watson was not lost on Holmes. She neither swooned nor burst into passionate weeping—she merely stared up at him with grief-stricken grey eyes. He knew that look all too well, recalled seeing it in the mirror once upon a time. She was shattering within, but she refused to crumble just yet. “He needn’t have,” she whispered.

     He waited a full minute for her to say anything more, and he had just decided to leave when she spoke again. “Why did he not send for me?” Betrayal laced her quiet voice.

     He nearly shut his eyes against a memory of a beloved voice, long gone, answering him when he had asked the same question. “Perhaps… perhaps he wished your last memory of him to be a happy one.”

     She nodded slowly, silently. A beat. “Good afternoon, Mr. Holmes.” 

     “My sincerest condolences, Miss Fitzwilliam.” He tipped his hat in respect and left the parlour; he had reached the front door when at last he heard very soft weeping.

     Outside, clouds rolled across the sun once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I enjoyed doing the physical descriptions of the Brothers Holmes, especially Mycroft. I must say, even though I really like Charles Gray (Granada) as Mycroft, he's just far too old from the start. Thus, Mark Gatiss's modern-day Mycroft is quite my mental image of the man.
> 
> Also, it's lovely to do my own back-story for "The Dying Detective," especially Victor Savage. Neither Granada nor the BBC radio drama are very sympathetic to the poor man: the former has him as an opium addict, and the other as a spoiled brat. Interestingly, both shows characterize Culverton Smith quite differently from the Canon. I decided to take a page from their books and try my own rendition—I'm quite satisfied with the results, and, by the time you've read Chapter 7, I hope you readers will be, as well.


	5. The Most Dangerous Men in London

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time for some serious Watson. Are you ready?

     Fog hung low and heavy over the city, street lamps barely penetrating the murk. The chill gloom of a London Hallo’een, however, paled in comparison to the cold dark permeating the office tucked away in the back of a respectable club. The gas lamps were lit, but their pale light offered little warmth to the opulent room.

     A thin, dark man of average height stood before the desk, his bronzed face imperturbably stoic. On the other side of the desk sat a tall, slender man analysing a sheet of foolscap. The cool air of mastery of the latter left no doubt as to who controlled this interview. 

     “You murdered your nephew with your exotic disease,” the tall man said tonelessly, not even deigning to look up from the paper.

     “Yes,” the other said evenly.

     “And Sherlock Holmes is now on the case.”

     “Yes…”

     “He has found you out.” The tall man’s voice held the faintest edge to it.

     “He has no evidence, and I am not certain—”

     “Oh, but I am, sir,” the tall man interjected smoothly, at last favouring his visitor with a serene smile. “I have my sources, Mr. Smith, as well you know, and even did I not, it is quite inconceivable that the amateur detective should fail to connect you to the murder.”

     “…yes, sir?” The subordinate was a man of no little self-confidence, but only a fool would be anything less than cautious in dealing with the man behind the desk.

     “I believe my instructions were for you to acquire a different test subject for your malignant experiments, opium dens aside,” the tall man continued calmly. “Now, thanks to your unrestrained lust for your brother’s estate, the most brilliant detective in London is hot on your trail.”

     “I didn’t think—”

     “Indeed, sir, you did _not_ think. It was all too easy for Holmes to link you to Savage’s death, as I warned you it would be. I can arrange for you to disappear if you wish, but you had best leave our private consulting detective alone. _I_ shall deal with him when I am ready.”

     In an attempt to salvage his pride, Culverton Smith drew himself up with wounded dignity. “You speak, sir, as if I would attempt to infect Holmes himself.”

     The penetrating gaze of the cold iron-grey eyes, steady though the domed head slowly turned back and forth, was enough to unnerve even Smith’s not-inconsiderable constitution. After a few moments, his master spoke again. “Indeed, Mr. Smith, you shall not.” The man rose slowly to his feet until he, abruptly exuding a quiet but intense and malevolent power, towered over Smith. “To do so would be to court unavoidable disaster.”

     “I shall not, of course,” Smith said tonelessly.

     The domed head dipped once in regal acknowledgement. “If you wish to affect a disappearance, you had best decide soon. If Holmes acquires the necessary evidence to convict you, even I might be unable to aid you.” 

     Smith lifted his chin fractionally. “He has no concrete evidence, sir—there is no murder weapon. Any so-called evidence would be circumstantial at best.”

     The other man gave him a long look before returning his attention to the papers on his desk. More than a little unsettled, Smith nearly bowed before beating as hasty a retreat as was properly possible. As soon as he was out of earshot, the tall man called, “Colonel.”

     A large man possessed of a powerful physique entered the room and stood at attention. “Yes, Professor?”

     “What think you of Mr. Culverton Smith?”

     The Colonel snorted. “He is a fool, sir. Too convinced of his own ideas, too unyielding.”

     “Quite so.” One corner of the Professor’s mouth pulled back, but there was no warmth in the expression. “But a useful fool, he remains. His knowledge of exotic diseases is too valuable an asset for us to dispose of just yet. For now, he has our protection.”

     “Yes, sir,” the Colonel said reluctantly, and perhaps a trifle resentfully.

     “Patience, my dear Colonel. Once we have cultivated a sufficient replacement for Mr. Smith, you may have your way with him.”

     The smile of the retired soldier was the feral, predatory smile of a tiger.

 

 

     From the kerb, John Watson stared up at the window of the first floor for a few moments, fingering his walking stick. Making up his mind, he ascended the steps, unlocked the door with his old key, stepped inside, and called, “Mrs. Hudson?” 

     “Dr. Watson!” the landlady cried happily from another room. She hurried out to Watson and took his hat and coat. “Oh, it does my heart good to see you again!”

     He smiled. “Mrs. Hudson, I could never stay away for long.” He took her hand and kissed it.

     “Doctor. Always the gallant.” She smiled, her free hand reaching back to pat her dark hair. Some women blushed when flattered; Mrs. Hudson patted her hair.

     “Is Holmes in?” Watson asked, pretending not to notice.

     “Upstairs, and on a case.” Her expression sobered. “He’s been very grave these past few days.”

     One did not describe Sherlock Holmes on a case as _grave_ —one described him as energetic, enthusiastic, even cheerful. But not grave. Not unless… “Someone has died during the investigation, then,” he said quietly.

     “I think that… seeing you will do _his_ heart good.”

     The doctor rubbed at his bad shoulder, glad that Holmes at least had Mrs. Hudson to take care of him. “I’ll see what I can do,” he assured her, climbing the steps quietly, hoping to take his sharp-eared friend by surprise. He cracked the sitting room door open and poked his head in. “Good afternoon, Holmes.”

     The detective spun around from his position at the desk, his face lighting up. “Watson! Do come in!”

     Watson grinned and entered, allowing Holmes to take him by the arm and direct him to his old armchair. “You look busy.”

     “I am. I’m in the midst of a grave affair.”

     “Should I leave then, or might I be of service?”

     Only someone well versed in the body language of Sherlock Holmes would have caught the split-second hesitation. “Neither is necessary, my dear fellow.”

     Watson raised an eyebrow. 

     “Mrs. Watson told me how busy you yourself are.”

     Watson nodded his understanding. “I do have a sudden influx of patients.”

     “Just so. It would be selfish of me to take you from them.”

     “Mm. So, this investigation. Mary told me you were asking about a Mr. Culverton Smith?”

     It was Holmes’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “Watson, that was over a week ago.”

     Watson gave him a chagrined nod. “I know, and I’m sorry. The truth is that, I’ve never heard of him before.”

     “Ah. He is an amateur in the field of pathology.”

     “I see. And you are investigating him?” 

     The detective did not miss a beat. “Perhaps.”

     “Holmes…”

     “Yes, old man?”

     Watson nearly sighed. His former flat-mate was nothing if not completely impassive when he wished to be, but, when he played evasive to a deadpan degree, it was always cause for concern. Fortunately, Watson had not been friends with the man for nearly a decade without learning some methods to draw the detective out. “Very well, Holmes,” he said, rising. “I’ll leave you to it. Do tell me if I’m needed, and do come round for dinner sometime—any day is fine.”

     “Watson, wait.” That was spoken in a weary tone—Watson turned back and saw the younger man pinching the bridge of his nose.  “I’m sorry, old fellow.”

     “What on earth is the matter, Holmes?” Watson asked gently, taking a step closer. 

     Holmes took a step back, as if any physical contact could harm him. “I cannot say for certain just yet, Watson,” he said evenly, though his deep grey eyes pleaded with his friend to be patient. “You shall know all when _cursum perficio_.”

     Watson sighed. “As you wish, my dear fellow.” He ran a brief analysis his friend’s physical state: thinner and paler even than usual, drawn features, bags under the eyes… essentially, a skeleton running on pure willpower. Typical Holmes-on-a-case. It would be a wonder if the man survived to his fiftieth year. “When have you eaten last?”

     The detective cast him a deprecating glance. “My dear fellow, you know my habits when on a case of importance.”

     “‘At present I cannot spare energy and nerve force for digestion’—oh, Holmes.” Watson sighed again. “Then I suppose you wouldn’t care for Simpson’s?” 

     Holmes had turned away, but now his gaze slowly slid back to his friend. “Watson, let no one say you do not possess a streak of deviousness in you. Tempting me with my favourite restaurant is most unfair.”

     Watson smirked in triumph. “‘All’s fair in love and war,’ old man,” he said brightly, grabbing Holmes’s forearm and pulling him away from the desk. “Now shed your dressing gown and we’ll go. That is, unless something truly terrible will happen if you leave?”

     Holmes shook his head in silent amusement. “No, I do not believe so.”

     “Jolly good. I’ll go hail a cab.”

 

 

     “‘I’ll keep an eye on him,’ I say. Ha! My complete _lack_ of brilliance astounds _myself_ sometimes, because, dash it all, how am I to keep an eye on him if I’m tied up with a forgery case and he’s tied up with… whatever it is he’s working at now?!”

     In storming his way down the busy hall to his office, Lestrade suddenly found himself eye to shoulder with Gregson. He looked up, and his former rival cocked one flaxen eyebrow. “Was there something you _wanted_ to share with the rest of the Yard, Lestrade?”

     The smaller man folded his arms over his chest as the traffic of the Yard flowed around them. To the casual observer, such an image would have been amusing: the slender, 5’7” Lestrade adopting a belligerent stance towards the stocky, 6’3” Gregson. But every Yarder, down to the greenest Constable, knew better that to underestimate an agitated Geoffrey M. Lestrade. “Other than my extreme _perturbation_ at being occupied with one case while Sherlock Holmes is on another, when I promised his all-knowing brother I’d look out for him? Oh, nothing a-t’all!”

     Both flaxen eyebrows went up. “You promised Mycroft Holmes you’d… Lestrade, are you finally breaking under pressure? Truly?”

     “You needn’t worry about Holmes for the time being, Lestrade,” Morton called as he approached them. “He came round here yesterday and found you gone, so he dragged me into his investigation.”

     Lestrade exhaled slowly. “What’s he on about now?”

     “Culverton Smith, amateur student of diseases—it’s a medico-criminal case.” Morton stuffed his hands into his pockets. “Smith’s nephew—hearty young lad—hires Holmes to investigate his uncle, then up and dies suddenly, of a disease Smith apparently has studied in-depth.”

     “Ah, coincidence,” Gregson said knowingly. “We all know how much Holmes hates _that_.”

     Lestrade shifted impatiently from one foot to the other. “Yes, well, can we talk about this in my _office_? I need to be looking up an old case, 1878: Cooper and Sanderson.”

     “Fine by me,” Morton shrugged, falling into pace with Lestrade’s shorter but rapid strides.

     “Cooper and Sand… wasn’t that Holmes’s first official case with the Yard?” Gregson mused aloud.

     “Yes,” Lestrade said shortly. “Now, Morton?” 

     “Well, with the nephew dead, Smith inherits his half-brother’s estate,” Morton continued. “They don’t come much more cold-blooded than that.”

     Gregson stepped aside to allow Lestrade into his own office first. “And the problem with the case?”

     “No evidence.”

     Lestrade and Gregson winced as one—considering their infamous past rivalry, it was a sight to behold. “I don’t envy you that investigation, then, Morton,” Lestrade said feelingly.

     “Thank you,” Morton said dryly. “Where are your ’78 cases?”

     “That cabinet drawer.” Lestrade pointed. “But they might also be in that box.” He pointed again.

     “Can’t wait ‘til the full move,” Gregson muttered.

     “Oh, Lord, it’s already a nightmare,” Lestrade returned, diving into the box while Morton checked the cabinet. “We shan’t be settled for _months_. So, Morton—” his head was actually inside the box now, muffling his voice—“anything else to this case?”

     “Yes, as matter of fact. Mr. Holmes has tentatively connected Smith to a smuggling ring in Rotherhithe, thinks they’re bringing in actual bacteria samples from Asia for Smith to study and use.”

     Lestrade gave a low whistle.

     Gregson picked up a sheaf of papers from the desk and idly glanced through them. “Sounds as though Smith’s got very high connexions.” The name _Moriarty_ hung unspoken in the air.

     “I had thought of that,” Morton admitted from where he was rifling through the file cabinet. “I mean to talk with Patterson later… Lestrade, I thought you were neater than this!”

     “I _am_! It’s this blasted move, and I made the mistake of having PC Douglas help me pack my papers.” The little detective gave a triumphant shout and shot up out of the box, beaming and bearing his precious file. “Thanks, nonetheless, Morton, and best of luck with your case. You’ll need it.”

 

 

     John Watson considered the possibility that he was masochistic. Two wounded limbs which ached inconsolably in inclement (especially cold) weather, and, out of all the destinations on earth, he chose to live in London. But after nearly ten years and Sherlock Holmes, he could not imagine living anywhere else.

     “Are you nervous, John?”

     The doctor smiled fleetingly at the avuncular chuckle and turned to his former mentor. “Perhaps. I recall Holmes mentioning the Tankerville once: he said that he’d cleared a Major Prendergast of a charge of cheating at cards.”

     “Prendergast!” boomed Hayter, laughing. “He still attends. They tell me he was rather a wild sort back in the day, so I’m not a bit surprised at the accusation.”

     Shaking his head fondly, John merely returned his gaze to the window on his side of the cab and massaged his game leg. Colonel Matthias Hayter was a tall, well-built man, hale and hearty in his middle age. John would not be a bit surprised if his onetime patient would outlive _him_. Hayter spent his so-called declining years between his Reigate estate and a town house, with an eye towards ducks in the former and an ear towards gossip in the latter. He often declared that there was nothing so entertaining as hearing of the foibles and follies of his fellow man.

     In that, the Colonel certainly resembled Holmes in his odd fits of humour. Larger-than-life men, both of them. They had got on splendidly during that aborted holiday on Hayter’s estate. John leant his head against the wall of the cab and allowed the Colonel’s boisterous voice to flow over him, relating the latest of society in an ironical tone. 

     _So much for gossip being the province of women!_ John grinned briefly at the thought.

     Colonel Hayter had come up from Surrey for the holidays, albeit rather early. “Hallow’s Eve, All Saints, and All Souls are more interesting in the town than they are in the country,” he had once told John. Now the Colonel had talked John at last into accompanying him to his club, the Tankerville. The club had been created solely for army officers.

     John’s own brief tenure with the army had granted him the rank of assistant-surgeon, only—he had commanded no troops, only orderlies, and his rank of Major was more honorary than actual.

     But Hayter was not one to take “no” for an answer. “You shall be unfit to practise medicine much longer if you don’t look after yourself, lad,” he’d declared. However, whereas John would have been perfectly content with a quiet evening at home with his lovely wife, the Colonel insisted that the doctor needed a more social setting for relaxation. How Hayter could possibly consider the din of a military club to _relaxing_ was beyond John’s powers to fathom.

     And no sooner had the doctor stepped through the double doors of the Tankerville than he felt completely out of place. The club was on the first floor of the building—the doors opened up to a short hall which led to a flight of stairs. The outward appearance could not be more ordinary.

     The inside could scarcely be less so.

     The Tankerville Club, despite its plebeian name, was one of the most opulent establishments John had ever set foot in. Oak floors, cherrywood panelling, mahogany furniture, enormous chandeliers… it was more a palace in miniature than a club. Even Mycroft’s precious, luxurious Diogenes could not compete with the sheer decadence of this place.

     Now that John thought about it, a social setting would not have been so bad for relaxation, but John would vastly have preferred the Crooked Arrow. A friendly pint or two with Lestrade, Bradstreet, perhaps MacDonald or Morton and _possibly_ Gregson would have been just the thing.

     John felt Hayter’s gaze on him and knew the older man could sense the turn of his thoughts. “John,” Hayter murmured warningly.

     John felt bound to make the attempt. “Could we not have gone to a respectable pub?”

     “Come along, m’boy.” Hayter took him by the shoulders and steered him into the common room, at which point John sighed and decided to make the best of it. After all, Holmes had been dragging him around for nearly a decade—surely he could endure anything by now.

     There was no lack of variety in the physical features of the club members, but most shared the same permanent tan John and Hayter bore. And all were recognisably military men in their evening suits.

     Hayter’s name was called, and he turned aside to greet the man, though not before a press on John’s arm to follow. John ignored the summons and moved on, drinking in the vast room and its occupants with the eyes of a writer.

     The ostentatious hall was a grand tribute to the wealth and power of the British Empire, maintained by the men the room serviced. But it was rather too splendid in John’s eyes, so very exquisite as to be nearly effeminate. It was the very antithesis of what he and his fellow soldiers endured when they fought for Queen and country.

     “I beg your pardon,” said a boyish voice, “but you are new here, are you not?”

     John’s focus telescoped inward once more and settled upon the man before him, some three or four years his junior. The man’s skin was, amusingly, much darker than his corn-silk hair, and his grey-blue eyes sparkled affably out of his bronzed, handsome face. He was about John’s height and wiry rather than stocky in build.

     The doctor instinctively liked him. “I am. I was invited by a friend. Major John Watson, at your service.”

     The bronzed face creased into something just short of a grin, revealing boyish dimples. “Major Dick Sharon, at yours.” 

     John smiled as they shook hands. “ _Dick_?”

     Sharon shrugged one-shouldered. “ _Richard Sharon_ always sounded too pretentious for my tastes. I enlisted under ‘Dick’—rather to my dad’s vexation, I might add—and that was that.”

     John chuckled. “I was tempted to try out ‘Jack’ for a change when _I_ enlisted, but I decided against it.”

     “Good for you,” said Sharon. “You look fully a John.”

     John chuckled again, deciding that Major Sharon must be a favourite amongst their generation of officers. His warmth and charm was not a bit affected—the kind of man who loved life and enjoyed sharing it with others.

     “You say a friend invited you?”

     John nodded. “Colonel Matthias Hayter.”

     The other man’s face brightened further. “Hayter! Well!” He clapped John on his bad shoulder, and John hid a wince as dull pangs shot down his already-pained arm. “Any friend of that old rascal is more than welcome in the Tankerville! So, where have you served?”

     “India, very briefly, and Afghanistan,” John said factually. “Second Afghan War. I was originally with the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers, but I was reattached to the 66th Berkshires.”

     Sharon’s pale eyes went round. “Maiwand?” he all but whispered. Of course, he did not need John’s confirming nod—every army man knew the fate of the 66th Berkshires. “Good heavens. And you…”

     “Left shoulder. Jezail.”

     Sharon winced as he obviously realised that he’d clapped that exact shoulder.

     “I was invalided out after Candahar,” John continued, “and that was the end of my brief military career.” 

     “Poor fellow,” Sharon commiserated. “I’ve been in India myself since ’79—I’m on furlough just now.”

     “I should have liked to stay in India,” John mused, recalling his moments of lucidity in that Indian hospital. “For all its perils, it is a land of enchantment.”

     Sharon nodded. “It is that. I—” 

     “Dick!” someone called from a nearby table. “Are you coming? We’re dealing!”

     “One moment!” Sharon called back. “Well, Watson, what say you to poker?” 

     John shook his head, smiling. “You go ahead. Perhaps I shall join later.”

     “You do that,” Sharon said firmly before turning toward his table. “A pleasure meeting you, Watson.”

     “Likewise,” said John. He watched Sharon take a seat at a table filled with men in their thirties before returning his gaze to the room about him. He found his eyes searching the throng for any familiar faces, but if there were any men he had known in his pre-London life, they must have changed considerably in the past decade.

     After another two minutes or so to himself, he was rejoined by Hayter. “Well, well, if you didn’t want to follow me _everywhere_ this evening, I shan’t hold it against you, my boy,” said the Colonel. “I did notice that you were not entirely alone.”

     “No, I was not,” John agreed. “Do you know Dick Sharon?”

     “Yes, indeed, the young scoundrel.” Hayter’s green eyes twinkled. “Oh, there’s not a devious bone in his body, bless him, but the lad enjoys the ladies’ company at social events. I do hear that there’s a native girl in India who has caught his eye—I suppose we shall see how distance and time affect the relationship.”

     As he spoke, Hayter manoeuvred John through the tables to one near a tiger skin gracing the wall with its glory. John had never before seen one so enormous, and, for a long moment, he was back in the jungles of India, watching the king of Indian beasts prowl his domain.

     An amused voice broke into his reverie. “Do you like him?”

     John reluctantly tore his gaze away and faced the speaker, a man taller and even more powerfully-built than Hayter. He was certainly past fifty, but even a long tenure in the Queen’s service had not damaged his handsome, chiselled features. His dark, angular face could have passed for either a philosopher or a ladies’ man, incredibly enough. His Prussian blue eyes danced as he regarded the newcomer.

     “He is _magnificent_ ,” John said feelingly. “Is he yours?”

     The older man smiled. “He is, indeed—one of my two finest.” He stroked one hind leg affectionately. “The other I must keep in my house to brag over.”

     John laughed outright as the man winked at him.

     “Well, Hayter,” the hunter boomed amiably. “I see that you have at last brought your protégé.”

     John felt the colour rising to his cheeks.

     Hayter beamed. “I have, indeed. John, meet Colonel Sebastian Moran.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHAM.
> 
> That's the kind of line that you end a Doctor Who episode on, isn't it? ;D But, in all seriousness, I'm sure most or all of you saw it coming. As soon as you saw the tiger, I'm sure you saw it coming.
> 
> And more of Lestrade and Gregson! Oh, writing those two never gets old—they're fantastic for that clever banter dialogue writers like myself love so much! And isn't Colin Jeavons!Lestrade talking while his head's in a box just a fun mental image? Gotta feel sorry for the poor guy, what with his "My complete lack of brilliance astounds myself sometimes." *snickers* And the mental image of his "staring down" Gregson is amusing, indeed. Oh, and finally: "Lestrade, are you finally breaking under pressure? Truly?" LOL.
> 
> Once again, I enjoyed my own rendition of Culverton Smith. I also enjoyed writing Moriarty—in fact, I LOVE writing Moriarty. He's so brilliant and chilling and completely sane, a true delight to write. So many villains are insane, to some degree—not the Professor. Never the Professor. *happy sigh*


	6. The Highest Degree Sinister

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clash of the Titans, Round 1: Watson Vs. Moran.

     “John, meet Colonel Sebastian Moran.”

     A terrific explosion, such the Fenian bombing of 1885, could have rocked London at that moment, and John H. Watson would not have noticed, so shocked was he. Colonel Sebastian Moran—the retired soldier who ranked as second-in-command in Professor Moriarty’s criminal empire, his services so highly prized by the Napoleon of Crime that he earned a greater income per year than the Premier of Great Britain, himself.

     Having witnessed firsthand the corruption in the military, Watson had been unsurprised to learn that a retired colonel had become one of the most dangerous criminals in London. But standing here now, being introduced by his own mentor to one of his dearest friend’s worst enemies… he felt a sense of betrayal. Hayter obviously did not know. And Watson would not have been able to guess it—he’d been taken in by Moran’s easy affability just as Holmes said so many had.

     “Moran,” Hayter continued, oblivious to his protégé’s reaction, “Major John Watson.”

     Something flashed so swiftly through the hunter’s eyes that John _might_ have imagined it. “A pleasure to meet you, Major,” Moran said, smiling and proffering his hand.

     John grasped it, unthinking. But at the touch, he knew that Moran did indeed recognise his name—recognised it, and was not at all pleased to be sharing the same room with the close friend of Sherlock Holmes. “The pleasure is all mine, Colonel,” John returned, smiling. He had no acting ability, Holmes had said many times. 

     The doctor wished Holmes were here to see how greatly wrong he was.

     “I must say,” John continued amicably, “I envy you your catch. I had but one opportunity for a tiger hunt when I was in India, and I was not the man on that expedition to make a catch.”

     Moran’s features had taken on a rather brooding appearance, but one corner of his mouth pulled back. “It is an art, lad. All hunting is art in its most primal aspect.”

     The hairs on the back of John’s neck pricked at that, the words touching off his most fundamental danger alarms. “Indeed. I am certain there are many who would agree with you.”

     Moran did a sharp double-take, no doubt parsing John’s statement for hidden meaning. “Quite so.” His smile returned as he faced Hayter once more, and John had to give the man credit for his acting skills, if indeed he was even acting. There was simply no way to tell that the expression was anything less than genuine. “Well, Hayter. Shall we set up our game?”

     Hayter’s own expression was studiously neutral. “Certainly.” The moment Moran’s back was turned, Hayter sent John a questioning look, to which John could only respond with a minute shake of his head. Explanations would have to wait, and, when they did come, John had no notion of what to say.

_“You see, sir, Colonel Moran is the right-hand man of London’s most powerful criminal—another respectable man, a former professor. From whom have I got this information? Well, Holmes has a vast knowledge of the London Underworld, sir. He told me of Moran years ago.”_

     Unacceptable. Ludicrous, even. John sighed noiselessly. Plotting out his account of the matter would have to wait. A game of whist was being set up, and Hayter had made it clear that he was expected to play.

     John recalled Holmes once mentioning card-playing (and cheating) as one of Moran’s many talents. Very well. John had not inconsiderable talent in both fields as well, having learnt the latter unwillingly from a friend in India. He fully intended to give Moran a run for his money—he might not cheat, but at least he could recognise a trick for what it was.

     But as the game progressed, it became very clear that while John could play expertly, Moran was very much the master. The doctor’s frustration grew throughout the game, though he hoped he was able to hide it. Ordinarily, he would have no trouble in losing to a consummate opponent—as Holmes would say, he played the game for the game’s own sake—but tonight, the inevitable loss rankled.

     Moran caught John’s eye as they cleared up the table, and the older man laughed genially. “Already weary of whist, Watson?” 

     Not exactly, and hadn’t Moran just enjoyed that alliteration? Even so, John had no desire to lose again to the second most dangerous man in London, and he needed a way to bow out gracefully. “I’m afraid billiards is more to my taste,” John admitted.

     Hayter frowned minutely.

     Moran regarded John with a speculative gleam in his dark blue eyes, a gleam that did nothing to put the younger man at ease. Rather, it put him in mind all too uncomfortably of a tiger sizing up his prey. “Billiards, eh?” the colonel mused. “Would you gentlemen mind if Watson and I broke up our whist table for a game of billiards? After all, we must accommodate our guests.”

     Hayter did more than frown—he glared openly at Moran, who seemed not to notice.

     John leant forward and smiled challengingly. “I would be delighted, sir.”

     Moran’s eyes flashed. As the hunter led the way to the billiard tables, Hayter moved in close to John, whispering, “John, what the devil is all this about? Do you know him?”

     “Not quite,” John whispered back. “I shall have to explain later.” He patted his benefactor’s forearm reassuringly before striding ahead to the chosen table. He might be talented at cards, but he had been told that he was positively a demon at billiards.

     Moran smiled predatorily across the table. “Well, Watson, are you ready?”

     John all but smirked. “Yes, sir.”

 

 

    Davy Wiggins made certain to slick back his hair and straighten his clothes before he knocked. “A true gentleman is a gentleman in manner, speech, and _dress_ , David Jonathan,” she would tell him again and again. “Would you expect a toff to speak Cockney?” 

     “I ‘spect not,” he’d mumbled, raking a hand through wild, dirty hair.

     “I _expect_ not,” she’d corrected. “Nor should one think a gentleman a gentleman if he allowed his appearance to be as unkempt as if he were in bed. God looks at the heart, but man _does_ look on the outside, and a man’s appearance should be a reflection of himself.”

     Satisfied that he would meet with Annie Lestrade’s approval, he straightened and knocked on the door. Eleven-year-old Jeremy answered it, and his face—so like his father’s—lit with a wide smile. “Davy!”

     “Hullo, m’lad. Is your mum occupied?”

     Jeremy opened his mouth, but his mother’s voice beat him to it. “Ach, come in out of the cold, love. ‘Tis a wet night out.”

     Davy grinned as he stepped in, taking off his cap. “I’ve survived worse in the gutter, Miss Annie.” From somewhere upstairs, he heard the sound of coughing—baby Joan, he thought—and the sound of a young voice singing a lullaby.

     The dark, slight Mrs. Lestrade gave him a small smile and rose from her small writing desk. “Enough of that, now, Davy. You didn’t want to see Mr. Lestrade? He is out, I should warn you.”

     Davy shook his head. “No. I’ve been intending to visit, you see, but I’ve been on a case of late. I have something for the _kinder_ , though.” He pulled a tin out of his rusack and handed it to Jeremy. “Scones, and enough to go ‘round.”

     Jeremy beamed. “Oh, thank you!”

     “Go put it away, dear,” Annie told him. “Davy, do take a seat and make yourself comfortable.”

     Davy shook his head. “I wish I could, Miss Annie, but I really should be getting on. I only came by to say hello.”

     “At least have a biscuit?”

     He sighed: he knew when he was beaten. “Miss Annie, ma’am, that’s plain unfair, is what it is—preying on a man’s weakness like that.”

     Her brown eyes danced as she smirked—Annie Lestrade was one of kindest women he’d ever known, but she had a bit of the devil in her. “Come along then, love, and I’ll make you some tea.”

 

 

     “At least you know that Mr. Holmes has one of us working with him. Anyone’d think you’d be thankful for the reprieve.”

     Lestrade sighed and glanced over his pint at Roger Bradstreet. “You’d think, wouldn’t you? Instead, I’m more worried than ever, especially with him investigating a _poisoner_. You know he isn’t careful with himself.”

     “And Morton’s not a mother hen like you are,” Bradstreet said knowingly.

     Lestrade did not deign to answer, settling for a half-hearted glare and a swig of his pint. He set the mug down and studied it. “If Watson was on the case with him, I wouldn’t be half so worried. But the good Doctor is busy with his own profession, bless him.”

     “And he needs to live his own life,” Bradstreet added. “He can’t simply drop his practise into Anstruther’s lap forever, and I’m sure he knows it, too. ‘Sides, when he and the missus start a family, he won’t have time to be father, doctor, and assistant detective all at once. He has to choose sooner or later.”

     Lestrade frowned. “It’s a cruel choice. He shall always be a doctor, first and foremost, but you know that he’s never so alive as when he’s on a case with Mr. Holmes.” He rested his chin in his palm and glanced morosely around the common room of The Crooked Arrow. “Sod life for being so unfair.” 

     “Lestrade,” Bradstreet said gently, “I’m getting the feeling that there’s more what’s bothering you than Mr. Holmes’s and Dr. Watson’s problems.”

     Lestrade took one glance at his friend’s concerned frown and sighed. “Stress, I expect. Patterson, this… mess… with a certain high-ranking criminal, the Holmes brothers, the Doctor, the move to New Scotland Yard, the baby’s cold…”

     “Joan has a cold?” Bradstreet interrupted. “Ellie didn’t tell me that.”

     “Most likely because Annie hasn’t had the chance to tell _her_ ,” Lestrade all but snapped. “Joanie just came down with it.”

     “The poor lass,” Bradstreet said, sympathetically. He leaned back in his chair, his large body making the rickety wood creak ominously.

     Lestrade nodded shortly, then pressed his palms into his eyes, feeling the first pangs of a headache. “Ever wish that you could simply fall asleep and not wake up until the current problems in your life are over?”

     “I think we all wish that at some point or t’other.” Bradstreet ran his mild gaze over Lestrade. “Finish that pint, Geoff, and I’ll take you home.”

     Lestrade smirked wearily and nodded a salute. “Yes, sir.”

 

 

     “I… don’t believe I have ever had the privilege to witness such a marvellous game.” That was all Colonel Hayter had to say as he and John stepped out of the warmth of the Tankerville and into the chill of November on the Thames.

     John’s adrenaline was still so high that he was not yet feeling any complaint from his limbs. “I don’t believe I have ever had the privilege to play against such an opponent,” he returned, and nearly gave a short laugh at the double meaning. “Moran is one of those rare men who are as good as their boasting.”

     Hayter chuckled. “Indeed.” He spotted a cab and whistled for it. “But, John, you must tell me why you two were at odds with each other.” 

     John sighed. “Was it truly that obvious?”

     “I don’t think so, no. Only because I know you so well.”

     “Well, that’s a relief.” He climbed up into the cab first and waited until Hayter had climbed in and given directions before speaking again. “You of all people must know of the corruption in the army.”

     Hayter’s expression of curiosity settled into one of solemnity. “Indeed. It’s a sad thing.”

     “Quite. And if I told you that Moran is one strong example of that corruption?”

     Hayter’s thick eyebrows drew together. “That… would be difficult to believe, certainly. One tends to recognise a corrupt officer by their speech and mannerisms—Moran has none of the marks.”

     “A testament to his acting skills,” said Watson. “Or perhaps a remnant of his former self.”

     “Is it Mr. Holmes who has told you this?”

     “Yes, sir. Holmes has been keeping an eye on Moran’s less-than-legal activities for a long time.”

     “Such as?”

     “Cheating, theft… assassination.”

     “I see,” Hayter said quietly.

     John studied the older man and felt his chest ache. He knew what it was like to find out that a casual friend possessed a darker side, and that his kind amicability was merely a façade. “Is he a friend?” John said gently.

     Hayter shook his head. “No… no. Never had the chance to know him well enough for that. But… Moran. Moran, of all people. He’s a gentleman, Watson, a man of higher birth, and he is— _was_ —noble. If your information is correct… what could have possessed him?”

     “Greed,” John mused. “The thrill of the hunt…”

     Hayter looked positively ill.

     “I am sorry,” John murmured.

     Hayter would not look at the younger man, but the regret in his voice… “As am I, my dear boy.”

 

  

     The music this night is fantastic.

     Were Watson present, he might praise it as a _tour-de-force_ of Sherlock Holmes’s skill and passion with the violin. It is a veritable storm of sound that sends the heart soaring to lofty heights and plunging to murky depths, and never once does it degrade itself to the screeches and scrapes of contemplation. This is Sherlock Holmes at his finest.

     This _is_ Sherlock Holmes. This is the detective, the deductive reasoner, the “sleuth-hound,” the master intellect. This is the artist, the musician, the composer. This is the mind and heart in a rare, unguarded moment of unity.

     This is his soul.

     At last, the final, lingering notes of the Stradivarius fade away as he is spent, physically and emotionally. The violin is lovingly returned to its case, the old black clay pipe is removed from the mantle, and Holmes finally casts himself onto the settee.

     He is tired.

     The case taxes his energies, and memories resurface that he would rather keep locked away. The pale, lifeless face of Victor Savage haunts him, as does the heartbreak of Emily Fitzwilliam. They were both so young.

     _Not now,_ he tells himself, pushing himself back up to a sitting position and reaching for the day’s post. Among the envelopes is a small package from Jabez Wilson—one corner of his mouth pulls back at the memory of the gullible but guileless pawnbroker. The brief note thanks him again for his services and offers the little box in the package as a reward.

     He smiles down at the black and white ivory box. No reward was necessary, but it is a kind gesture, no matter how late. He picks up the box, slides the lid back—

     _Dear God_ …

     —and stares at the ragged cut of deep red on his thumb. He slides the lid shut once more, and the offensive spring withdraws into the box, its fatal deed done. 

     He cannot help shivering. Unless an antidote can be produced quickly, he has four days left to live.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd just like to say that this whole Tankerville sequence was one of the last things I wrote for this story, giving us some badly needed Watson earlier on than I'd originally done.
> 
> Also... Holmes infected? That's not Canonical! ...or is it? *wink* You'll get the justification for canonical compatibility in a couple of chapters, don't worry!


	7. To Be It

     The Colonel was a hunter. He had hunted both man and beast in the wilds of India, Afghanistan, and London, and he had many kills to his name. He enjoyed the hunt, the thrill of the chase and the satisfaction of the snare. He was a man of action.

     He was also a man of some prudence, else he would not have attained the position that he had in an empire whose size fairly rivalled that of the British Empire itself. In India, he had been quite content to lie in wait for hours in order to catch a tiger, and his bag remained unparalleled. 

     Both his need for action and his prudence were telling him now that a certain master pathologist must needs be punished for his disobedience. Corporal punishment was an attractive idea—Culverton Smith would never have endured the harsh discipline that had only in recent years been lawfully abolished—but capital punishment was even more so. The colonel fantasised a slow and agonising end for the pathologist, perhaps at the hand of one of his beloved diseases. 

     Sebastian Moran folded his arms over his broad chest as the messenger departed. “Forgive me, Professor, if I indulge in a brief moment of vindication.”

     “Certainly, Moran,” Moriarty rasped quietly. Moriarty never rasped unless he was angry. “I appear to have made a grave miscalculation on the part of our friend’s character; I should never have thought Smith to be capable of recklessness.”

     “Let me deal with him.”

     “In three days.” Moran frowned at his master, who smiled in return. It was not a nice smile. “Sherlock Holmes has three days left to live, but he will take Smith down with him if at all possible. If he fails to do so, Smith is yours.”

     “And if the police arrest him?”

     “Then we shall employ a… subtler means… of hastening his end.” Moriarty’s expression grew contemplative. “I am certain he shall appreciate the irony.”

 

 

     There was strong light beyond his eyelids.

     “Mr. Holmes?”

     He was in bed. He had no memory of getting into bed the night before. And why was he so hot?

     _Rap, rap, rap!_ “Mr. Holmes?” _Rap, rap, rap!_ “Mr. Holmes!”

     His eyes flew open with remembrance.

     He choked down a pained cry as the knocks on his door pulsated through his head, making his stomach churn mightily. He tasted bile, squeezed his eyes shut, pushed it back down his throat with great effort. “Mrs. Hudson.” The intended call came out as a mere croak.

     But she heard. The landlady opened the door and gasped at the sight of him tangled among the bedclothes. “Mr. Holmes!”

     He grimaced as her cry brought a fresh wave of agony crashing over him. “Softly, please, Mrs. Hudson,” he managed past an aching throat.

     “Oh, it is the influenza, isn’t it?” she moaned quietly, stepping into the room. “I feared you’d catch something in Rotherhithe! I shall call in Dr. Watson straight away—or one of his colleagues, if he cannot come himself.”

     “No!” The sharp retort startled them both. Not to be denied, however, he flung back the bedclothes and turned the full force of his still-formidable gaze upon his landlady. “Mrs. Hudson, allow me to… to deal with this… in my own fashion. It is nothing… serious… merely a fever and… a headache.” 

     Ainstree. He needed to get a message to Ainstree.

     “But, Mr. Holmes—”

     “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson, that will be all,” he said as sharply as he could manage. _She mustn’t be involved in this any more than is strictly necessary_.

     “But, sir,” she pleaded quietly, her amber eyes concerned. 

     He wished that she wouldn’t favour him with that particular look. Few things had the power to make him feel ashamed—Mrs. Hudson’s motherly concern was one of them. “My good woman,” he said, his voice softened, “I shall be all right in a few days. Truly.”

     Her eyes still worried, she pressed her lips tightly together and nodded once before leaving and shutting the door noiselessly after her. He sank back into bed, wanting nothing more than to sleep deeply and dreamlessly. 

     High temperatures and vivid nightmares had stalked him throughout the night before. 

     A long hand snaked out to the nightstand to grab the watch lying there. He glanced at it: five past one in the afternoon. The full import of that bit of data caught up with his weary brain, and he flew upright in bed. He had been infected for nearly _fourteen hours_.

     More than half a day had been wasted already.

     His head swam as he pushed himself out of bed, and bile rushed to his mouth once again as he took one unsteady step forward. Then another. The juices in his stomach protested vehemently. Another… He dropped to the floor and grabbed for the bedpan. After losing whatever was left of his small supper from the previous night, he spent another five minutes dry-heaving. His abdominal muscles did not seem to want to stop contracting.

     But at last, he managed to push himself back up off the floor, and he felt fractionally better. He plunged his hands into the water basin and splashed his burning face liberally with the icy water. He felt dreadfully chilled afterward but welcomed the sensation, after having been a human furnace for the past several hours. Eventually, he made it to the window of the sitting room and raised the sash with some difficulty. 

     Thank goodness he could still whistle. “Percy!”

     “Yes, sir?” the Irregular shouted back, looking up from the sidewalk right below. 

     “Tell Wiggins I need him immediately! Here!” Holmes tossed the boy a tanner. “Bring Wiggins back in less than half an hour, and it’ll be a shilling.” 

     The lad’s eyes grew as wide around as the coin. “Oi!  Yessir!” Percy took off as if Stapleton’s hound was at his heels—Holmes chuckled faintly at the sight…

     The next thing he knew, he had ended up on the sitting room floor somehow, and Wiggins was anxiously bent over him. “…up. Oh, thank God. Mr. Holmes!”

     “Shh,” Holmes chided weakly. “Just help me up to the settee, there’s a good fellow.”

     Wiggins mumbled something distinctly Cockney and profane as he lifted the detective up in his own thin, wiry arms; Holmes’s mind was too tired to translate. The younger man laid Holmes out on the settee with a gentleness born of being a father to two brothers and three sisters. Holmes settled gratefully into the cushions and pulled down the afghan draped over the back. “Thank you, m’lad.”

     “Mrs. Hudson says it’s influenza,” Wiggins said without preamble. “I rather think it isn’t.” 

     “It gives every…. appearance of being… as harmless,” Holmes murmured.

     “Harml—”

     “In _comparison_ … my dear Wiggins. What I have contracted is… far more deadly.”

     Wiggins clasped his hands behind his back. “Infectious?”

     “No. It must… must be transferred through a… break in the skin. Dr. Ainstree assured me… on that point. You must give him a message… get through to see him… any way you can. Card’s on the… desk.”

     “Mm.” Wiggins snatched up the card, studied it, set it down. “Right, then. And the message is?”

     “Three days. He’ll know what it… means.”

     “You have three days left to live?!” 

     Holmes could have kicked himself. “Wiggins…”

     “Like that Savage chap? You let that…” Wiggins descended into a string of colourful Cockney with a dash of another dialect Holmes couldn’t quite identify. The invectives that he _did_ understand, however, involved Culverton Smith and his ancestry. “…infect you?!”

     Holmes groaned and turned away. “I know what I am doing.”

     “You’d better,” Wiggins gritted out. “Tell me that you’ll involve the Doctor.”

     Holmes rounded on the boy from his prone position, feeling his face drain of what little colour it possessed. “Are you mad?! I’ll not risk Watson being hurt by a man such as Smith!”

     “When’re you going to learn he _wants_ you to risk it?!” Wiggins exploded. “When’re you going to learn he doesn’t care, he’ll go to the ends of the earth for you?! He’s a _soldier_ , Mr. Holmes, a soldier _what_ _survived bloody Maiwand!_ ”

     “And who very nearly _didn’t_ survive a second Jezail!” Holmes snapped back heatedly. “Wiggins, bear that burden yourself before you judge me for avoiding it.” He fell back then, trying desperately to work air into lungs that did not seem to be expanding properly.

     Wiggins bit back his lips, and Holmes could almost see the younger man swallow his frustration. When at last Holmes returned to some semblance of regular breathing, Wiggins said, “And the police?”

     “Inspector Morton. I was to see… him today…” Holmes pushed bile down again. “Just tell him to come right up.”

     Wiggins nodded dutifully and moved towards the door, then stopped and looked back over his shoulder. “Don’t die, sir,” he said bluntly. “We need you.” His sapphire eyes conveyed a more personal tone to the statement.

     “I’ll make every… effort not to,” Holmes assured him. The fact that he couldn’t get a full sentence out without at least one gasp for breath was counterproductive to his assurance.

     Wiggins exhaled noiselessly and said in a quiet Cockney voice, “Roight then, guv.” He placed a shabby old bowler hat on his golden head and left.

     Holmes took the opportunity to curl into ball and clutch at his abdomen, letting himself moan at the low, dull cramping there. _Wiggins, hurry_.

 

 

     He has been dangerously ill or severely wounded several times in his life, but not like this. Never like this. Not even the bullet in his side in ’82 produced this much torment, despite the raging fever that followed in the bullet’s wake, bringing hallucinations of burning alive. 

     In, out. In, out. Inhale, exhale.

     Breathe. Breathe. _Breathe_.

     Amazing what one takes for granted. Amazing how the simple act of breathing can be rendered so appallingly difficult.

     It hurts.

     Breathing hurts.

     It rattles his lungs, echoes in his aching head. A pang shoots through his cramped abdomen with every gasp.

     Never before in his life has he wanted to _stop breathing_.

     But he has a cunning murderer to take down, and so he throws every last ounce of his formidable willpower into surviving this. He _shall_ survive this.

     Inspector Morton has been informed as to the particulars; they have a plan of action set for the morrow. Dr. Ainstree needs but one more day to complete his antidote. Mrs. Hudson remains rather less-than-blissfully unaware of the scheme unfolding around her. Watson knows nothing at all, being too occupied with his practise to venture even this short distance from home.

     In, out. In, out.

     Two days. Two days now he has been reduced to this state.

     He is thirsty. He is thirsty, but he has discovered that he can barely swallow what little saliva remains in his mouth, let alone water. His throat is too swollen, and swallowing hurts too sharply. Food holds no appeal, thanks to the acrobatics his stomach remains determined to perform. He has reached the point, however, at which he is unable to vomit any more and must dry heave.

     He longs desperately for his Stradivarius, but he is too weak even to scrape the bow across the strings. Smoking, of course, is out of the question, and the fifty or so hours he has been without tobacco have tortured his exhausted mind further. He craves the comfort of his pipes and cigarettes, misses the soothing effect they have on him.

     When his exhausted brain at last slips into unconsciousness, it is only to meet memories best left untouched. Tuberculosis, not an Asiatic disease, had taken the life of the girl he had nearly married, but she has risen to the front of his mind ever since the death of Victor Savage.

     It seems a lifetime ago since Anne Middleton’s death. In some respects, it _was_ a lifetime ago, for he is so very different now from the boy that had begged God to spare Annie’s life. Of course, he is still the same man; there is nothing so sordidly dramatic about him as having been one person in his youth and being another altogether in his adulthood. But in that terrible year of 1877, he was simply so very… _young_. Young and devastated, reeling from the murders of his parents, the destruction of his home, and, several months later, the death of a girl whom some had called his childhood sweetheart.

     In this nightmarish period of his life, he met the newly minted Inspector Geoffrey Lestrade whilst on the trail of his parents’ murderer. There is a reason he calls Lestrade the best of professionals: though not as smart as Gregson, the little detective is hardworking, tenacious, dedicated, willing to listen to “fantastic theories” even if unwilling to follow them up, willing to admit his mistakes. And beneath an exterior toughened by a lifetime of hard knocks, a heart beats warm and strong.

     He suspects he owes Lestrade his life several times over. He once contracted pneumonia himself, and Lestrade took him in and saw to it that he survived. The professional detective watched out for his amateur colleague with an almost fatherly air, despite the amateur’s caustic tongue and secretive personality.

     He was the reason Lestrade met his wife, and so, of course, he knew her name. But he nearly broke down hearing Lestrade call her by it: Annie.

     Very few women he has met since 1877 have compared to his mother and to _his_ Anne. Mother remains his idea of perfection in the fairer sex, and Anne is not far behind. Annie Lestrade, Violet Hunter, Irene Norton, and Mary Watson—Mary, especially—must be the most like Cécile Holmes and Anne Middleton. From Miss Hunter, he has the gift of a lock of her elegant chestnut hair; from Mrs. Norton, a photograph. From Annie, a maternal acceptance into her family. From Mary, the gift of a friendship deepened into the regard of a brother and sister.

     And because of Mary, he has good reason to keep Watson from getting himself killed in these investigations. The Red-headed League was a safe enough case, even a somewhat comical one, and it has been one of the very few cases in which Watson has participated this past year. With a medical practise of a modest size and several attempts at parenthood, frequent investigations with the Doctor simply can no longer be justified.

     The day melts into the night, and the dusk brings Dr. Ainstree at long last with the cure to Smith’s poison. Holmes refuses to take the antidote just yet, for he must convince Smith that he is indeed dying. The night is long, and haunted once more by ghosts of the past. And when Mrs. Hudson insists that a doctor be called in—she does not know that Ainstree himself is such—Holmes gives in and asks for Watson. It’s selfish of him, he knows, but never before has he spent such long, feverish days alone. He aches to see his dearest friend again.

 

 

     The scholar spares his pocket-watch a brief glance as he works with his precious chemicals in one of the few hospitals that will still permit him entry. He smiles. The end is drawing very near.

 

 

     Sherlock Holmes cursed the illness for robbing his senses of their acuity and his brain of its lucidity. He did not hear the familiar tread upon the staircase, and the images of his fevered mind overlapped with reality… until the door opened, and Watson entered. 

     “Well, Watson, we seem to have fallen upon evil days.” He detested the frailty of his own voice. 

     Watson’s hazel eyes radiated heartache. “My dear fellow!”

     “Stand back! Stand right back!” His weary mind no longer recalled that the disease was non-infectious, and he feared Watson catching it. “If you approach me, Watson, I shall order you out of the house.”

     “But why?”

     “Because it is my desire. Is that not enough?” He sank back in the bedclothes, exhausted by the display of imperiousness. The vague thought drifted through his mind that he was acting childishly.

     “I only wished to help,” Watson soothed, stepping into the room but taking care not to approach the bed itself.

     “Exactly! You will help best by doing what you are told.” It was too much—too much energy expended too quickly, not enough air entering in his lungs. They didn’t seem to be expanding, and he panicked for a very brief moment. He almost drowned once, in the Days Before Watson, and he remembered that experience vividly. In the icy embrace of the Thames in January, he had been unable to draw breath, and his lungs had burned for release. He relived that moment now, and only as from a distance did he hear Watson acquiesce.

     “Certainly, Holmes.” 

     It was still so very hard to draw breath. “You… are… not… angry?”

     Watson shook his head, his countenance afraid and sympathetic at once.

     “It’s for… your own sake… Watson.”

     “For my sake?”

     “I know what… is the matter… with me.” He knew all too well. “It is a coolie… disease… from Sumatra—a thing… the Dutch know… more about… than we, though they… have made little of it… up to date. One thing only… is certain. It is… _infallibly_ … deadly, and… it is horribly… contagious.” Later, he would not understand how his memory could have failed him, even considering the fever; for now, he waved his friend away with helplessly twitching hands. How he wished his body was fully under his own control once more! “Contagious by… touch, Watson—that’s it… by touch. Keep your distance and… all is well.”

     The hazel eyes lit with a determined fire. “Good heavens, Holmes! Do you suppose that such a consideration weighs with me for an instant? It would not affect me in the case of a stranger. Do you imagine it would prevent me from doing my duty to so dear a friend?” Watson stepped nearer the bed.

     Holmes felt his eyes burn with their own resolution. “If you will stand there, I will talk. If you do not, you must leave the room.”

     Watson drew himself up until he was the soldier again, the assistant surgeon serving under the unforgiving glare of the Afghan sun. “Holmes, you are not yourself.” That much, they could agree on. “A sick man is but a child, and so I will treat you.” And there they encountered a serious problem, to Holmes’s mind, at least. “Whether you like it or not, I will examine your symptoms and treat you for them.”

     Fool Doctor! Couldn’t he understand that Holmes could not bear it if Watson passed under the Valley of the Shadow _again_? Through Holmes himself? “If I am to have a doctor whether I will or not,” he said slowly, emphasising every word, “let me at least have someone in whom I have confidence.” He prayed that Watson would forgive him later.

     The older man stepped back as if he’d been struck in the face. Holmes could not have felt lower if he had done so. “Then you have none in me?” Watson said quietly.

     _All the confidence in the world,_ Holmes’s mind cried. “In your friendship, certainly,” his mouth said instead. “But facts are facts, Watson, and, after all, you are only a general practitioner with very limited experience and mediocre qualifications.” University of London and Netley were hardly _mediocre_ , nor was Afghanistan exactly _limited experience_ , and he knew it. “It is painful to have to say these things, but you leave me no choice.”

     It was a mere darkening of the eyes, but Holmes saw his barb go very deep. These were appalling, unforgivable things coming from his mouth, and seldom indeed had he felt more ashamed of himself.

     “Such a remark is unworthy of you, Holmes,” Watson said slowly and softly. “It shows me very clearly the state of your own nerves. But if you have no confidence in me, I would not intrude my services.” Bless the man, Holmes knew he didn’t deserve such a friend—could not deserve such a friend in a thousand years. “Let me bring Sir Jasper Meek or Penrose Fisher, or any of the best men in London. But someone you must have—” his voice hardened into that of Major Watson, late of Her Majesty’s Indian Army—“and that is final. If you think that I am going stand here and watch you die without either helping you myself or bringing anyone else to help you, then you have mistaken your man.”

     No, he had not. Never in a thousand years. Never in a million. He knew his Boswell.

     “You mean well, Watson,” he groaned, and his breath hitched at the same time like a sob. “Shall I demonstrate your own ignorance?” He found that speaking slowly improved his respiration and speech. “What do you know, pray, of Tapanuli fever? What do you know of the Black Formosa Corruption?”

     Watson drew in a breath and expelled it before answering. “I have never heard of either.”

     The next two hours, after Holmes persuaded Watson to wait, were a torment. Holmes grew weaker and weaker, and the pain increased, and he would not take Ainstree’s cure while Watson remained in the house. But his own agony was suddenly forgotten when Watson picked up Smith’s deadly box, and, for the first and only time in his life, Sherlock Holmes screamed in terror.


	8. The Snare

     “Do you know what is the matter with you?”

     “The same.”

     “Ah! You recognise the symptoms?” 

     “Only too well.” 

     “Well, I shouldn’t be surprised, Holmes,” Culverton Smith said affably. “I shouldn’t be surprised if it were the same. A bad lookout for you if it is. Poor Victor was a dead man on the fourth day—a strong, hearty young fellow. It was certainly, as you said, very surprising that he should have contracted an out-of-the-way Asiatic disease in the heart of London—a disease, too, of which I had made such a very special study. Singular coincidence, Holmes. Very clever of you to notice it, but rather uncharitable to suggest that it was cause and effect.”

     Sherlock Holmes had wished only recently for the chance to shake Smith by the hand for his genius. Now he was forced to listen to Smith’s playful gloating over a supposed dying man. “I knew that you did it,” he said quietly.

     “Indeed?”  Smith gave a rich chuckle. “And what proof have you of this, hmm?” He patted Holmes’s shoulder genially—the circumstances were so very far removed from their encounter in a Rotherhithe opium den. “But what do you think of yourself spreading reports about me like that, and then crawling to me for help the moment you are in trouble? What sort of game is that—”

     “ _Water_ ,” Holmes rasped. Half of the antidote, he had taken while Watson left to fetch Smith; the other half resided, colourlessly, in the glass of water on the nightstand. His parched throat yearned for relief, and his mind knew that he must take the other half soon. 

     “What?”

     Holmes managed to raise his voice. “Give me the water!”

     Smith picked up the glass, extended it towards Holmes, then drew it back sharply. Holmes did not have to pretend his desperation as he weakly lifted up a hand for the glass, murmuring, “Please.” Smith’s black eyes lit with vicious satisfaction, and he leaned in close, the water still just out of Holmes’s reach.

     “I want you to _know_ , Holmes,” he whispered maliciously. “It would never do to have the Great Detective die in ignorance of the cause of his own death.” He smiled, a sick smile, and brushed the hair back from Holmes’s sweaty forehead in a facsimile of tenderness. Holmes shuddered beneath the touch, not yet in full control of his body once again. The sick smile widened. “Here.” He held out the glass for Holmes, who latched onto it and drank greedily. Swallowing was agony, but the coolness was a blessing—and the medicine it contained, crucial.

     “There you are.” Smith took the empty glass back and returned it to the nightstand. “Now, listen carefully, Holmes—you’re good at doing that, aren’t you?”

     Holmes groaned—again, not an act. The antidote needed some little time to work its healing upon his ravaged body. “Do what you can for me,” he whispered. “Let bygones be bygones. I’ll put the words out of my head—I swear I will. Only cure me, and I’ll forget it.” Then he wondered if he’d made a misstep, for anyone who truly knew him knew that Sherlock Holmes would indeed die before making such a bargain.

     Fortunately, Culverton Smith knew him by reputation only. “Forget what?”

     “Well, about Victor Savage’s death. You as good as admitted just now that you had done it. I’ll forget it.”

     “You can forget it or remember it, just as you like,” Smith said obligingly. “Somehow, I… don’t quite see you in the witness-box.” That sick smile again. “Quite another shaped box, my good Holmes, I assure you. It matters nothing to me that you should know how my nephew died. It’s not him we are talking about—it’s you.”

     “Yes, yes,” Holmes said wearily.

     “The fellow who came for me—I’ve forgotten his name—said that you contracted it down in the East End among the sailors.” Good old Watson—he’d obeyed Holmes’s order to set Smith’s box down, and had waited the full two hours until it was time to seek out Culverton Smith and induce him to come to Baker Street.

     “I could only account for it so.”

     “Hum, I… think not,” Smith said easily. “Cast your mind back, Holmes. Can you think of no other way you could have gotten this thing?”

     “I can’t think,” Holmes moaned. “My mind is gone.” It was very nearly true—his customary precision and clarity of thought were beyond his reach at present. “For heaven’s sake, help me!”

     “Yes, I will help you. I’ll help you to understand just where you are and how you got there. As I said, it would be a shame for you to die, not knowing the cause of your own death.”

     A sharp pang shot through his stomach—the parting pains of the disease, he hoped—and he curled in on himself, clutching at his abdomen and choking down a cry of agony. “Give me… something… to ease my pain,” he gritted out raggedly between spasms.

     “Painful, is it?” Smith mused, smiling almost benignly. Holmes nearly turned away in disgust. “Yes, the coolies used to do some squealing towards the end. Takes you as cramp, I fancy.”

     “Yes, yes,” Holmes gasped, “it is cramp. Oh, God!” _Let the antidote finish its work quickly,_ he prayed. 

     “Well, you can hear what I say, anyhow,” Smith said in a satisfied tone. “Listen now! Can you remember any unusual incident in your life just about the time your symptoms began?”

     How unnecessary this cross-examination was—if Holmes managed to live to a hundred, he was certain he could not forget his poisoning. “No, no, nothing.” His fingertips dug into his side, seeking to massage the cramps away.

     “Think again,” Smith ordered sternly.

     “I’m too ill to think,” Holmes whispered, hissing in pain.

     “Well, then, I’ll help you. Did anything come by post?”

     “By post?”

     “A box by chance?”

     Holmes’s only reply was a long, choking groan that was only half put-on.

     “Listen, Holmes!” Smith seized the detective by the shoulders and shook him, sending further spasms of fire through his body. Holmes gave a barely audible whimper. “You must hear me. You shall hear me. Do you remember a box—an ivory box? It came on Wednesday. You opened it—do you remember?”

     “Yes, yes, I opened it,” Holmes blurted out. “There was a sharp spring inside. Some joke—” 

     “It was no joke,” Smith said in that stern tone, “as you will find to your cost. You fool, you would have it and you have got it. Who asked you to cross my path? If you had left me alone, I would not have hurt you. _Remember, remember, the Fifth of November_.” Guy Fawkes Night—that was deliberate? Dear heavens… “Well, _you_ shan’t remember it, but _I_ shall.” 

     _The boy_ you _murdered asked me to cross your path_ , Holmes wanted to retort. “I remember,” he gasped instead. “The spring! It drew blood. This box—this on the table.” 

     “The very one, by George!” Smith smiled grimly. “It may as well leave the room in my pocket. There goes your last shred of evidence. But you have the truth now, Holmes, and you can die with the knowledge that I killed you. You knew too much of the fate of Victor Savage, so I have sent you to share it. You are very near your end, my dear Holmes.” No man had the right to call him that but John Watson—it sounded profane coming from this monster’s lips. Smith drew up the room’s one chair and settled into it. “And I shall watch you die.”

     “The gas,” Holmes whispered. The near-inaudibility of his voice belied the strength surging suddenly through his body, the cramps dispelling slowly but surely.

     “What is that?”

     “ _Turn up the gas_.” He felt as if a river coursed through him, washing away all impurities.

     “Ah, the shadows begin to fall, do they? Yes, I will turn it up, that I may see you the better.” Smith crossed the room and adjusted the light. “Is there any other little service that I can do you, my friend?” 

     Holmes pushed himself up in bed as the other man’s back was yet turned. “A match and a cigarette?” was the cavalier request, in his own true voice. Weakened, but no longer gasping and ragged. 

     Smith whirled around, staring incredulously at the detective. Nodding once, Holmes smiled mirthlessly and reached for his cigarette case and matches. “The best way of successfully… acting a part is to be it,” he continued. Let Smith think that it had all indeed been an act—so much the better for Holmes’s reputation. “For three days, I have managed… neither food nor drink until you were… good enough to give me that glass of water. But it is the lack of tobacco which I find most irksome.” He lit a cigarette and placed it between his lips with a sigh of pleasure—and relief. “That is very much better.”

     Smith found his voice at last. “And what, pray, is the meaning of this?” 

     Holmes favoured him with a hard look, thoroughly disgusted with the creature. “I am certain you can deduce that for yourself.” Footsteps sounded on the landing beyond, and the door opened, revealing Inspector Harold Morton. Smith paled, and Holmes waved the newcomer in. “Ah, Inspector! All is in order, and this is your man.” 

     “Thank you, Mr. Holmes.” Three constables came up to flank the official detective. “I arrest you on the charge of the murder of one Victor Savage,” Morton announced.

     He got no further than that, however, for Smith drew himself up with wounded dignity and thundered, “Preposterous! I—”

     “It’s no good, Smith,” Holmes said quietly. “They can still arrest you for the attempted murder of one Sherlock Holmes. Thank you, by the way, for turning up the gas and signalling the Inspector.” He smiled grimly. “Morton, the prisoner has a small box in the right-hand pocket of his coat which must be removed, and I would handle it gingerly if I were you.”

     Smith backed away from the advancing police, his hand straying to the noted pocket. A decisive click kept it from entering. “I wouldn’t try that, Smith,” Holmes said in a low tone, his revolver drawn from its place beneath his pillow and cocked.

     Morton took the opportunity to rush at the murderer and attempt to handcuff him. The struggle was brief; the scholarly Smith was no match for the powerfully built Morton. “You’ll only get yourself hurt,” the Inspector grunted. “Stand still, will you?” The cuffs clicked into place.

     “A nice trap!” Smith snarled. “It will bring you to the dock, Holmes, not me. His friend asked me to come here to cure him,” he continued, to the police. “I was sorry for him and I came. Now he will pretend, no doubt, that I have said anything which Holmes may invent to corroborate his insane suspicions. You can like lie as you like, Holmes. My word is always as good as yours.”

     “Good heavens!” Holmes could have kicked himself to Charing Cross Station as he watched Watson emerge from his hiding place in the shadows between the drapes and the bureau. “I had totally forgotten him! My dear Watson—”

     “No, don’t speak just yet, Holmes,” Watson warned, a thundercloud settling over his countenance. The sinking feeling in the pit of Holmes’s stomach had nothing to do with the illness—Watson was clearly reining in his temper. “Not just yet.” He looked to the Inspector and gave a sharp nod. “Morton.”

     A cruel fire kindled in Smith’s black eyes. “Someday you’ll go too far in using your friends, Holmes,” he sneered, “and then who will be there to defend you?”

     “Quiet, you,” Morton growled. “Men, let’s get this wretch to the Yard.”

     A pregnant silence settled in the bedroom in the wake of police and prisoner. Just when Holmes thought he could bear the tension no longer, Watson spoke again, quietly. “It was all a deception.”

     The detective remained silent.

     “Holmes, I would rather have known.”

     Sherlock Holmes justified his next words with the logic that Watson did not strictly need to know, and that he didn’t want Watson fussing over his health. “My dear fellow, I owe you a thousand apologies,” he said as he entered the sitting room to provide himself with some sustenance before attending to his toilet. “But you do realise that among your many talents dissimulation finds no place, and that if you had shared my secret, you would never have been able to impress Smith with the urgent necessity of his presence, which was the vital point of the whole scheme. Knowing his vindictive nature, I was perfectly certain that he would come to look upon his handiwork.”

     “And your appearance, Holmes?” Not quite forgiving, but at least Watson was willing to _listen_. Always a good sign.

     “Three days of absolute fast does not improve one’s beauty, Watson,” Holmes said drily as he poured himself a glass of claret. “For the rest, there is nothing which a sponge may not cure.” Interesting, that lies grew easier to tell once they were begun. “With vaseline upon the forehead, belladonna in the eyes, rouge over the cheekbones, and crust of beeswax round the lips, a very satisfying effect can be produced.” That much was true—he’d tested it himself, more than once. “Malingering is a subject upon which I have sometimes thought of writing a monograph. A little occasional talk about half-crowns, oysters, or any other extraneous subjects produces a pleasing effect of delirium.” Half-crowns and oysters were all that he could recall; the rest of his ramblings were lost to the haze of fever.

     “But why would you not let me near you, since there was, in truth, no infection?” The infinitesimally small trace of hurt in Watson’s tone made Holmes realise just how much damage he had truly done. How could he have so swiftly forgotten his vigil over Watson in ’88, the Jezail to the thigh and the high fever that followed? The past few hours must have been a true hell for his poor friend.

     “Can you ask, my dear Watson?” Holmes murmured, looking down at the floor. “Do you imagine that I have no respect for your medical talents? Could I fancy that your astute judgment would pass a dying man who, however weak, had no rise of pulse or temperature? 

     And still he lied. God forgive him.

 

 

     It was late when at last Mary heard the door open and shut in the hall beyond. “John!” She flew up from the rocking chair and threw her arms around him.

     “Mary,” he breathed, holding her close and burying his face in her shoulder. She noted the haggard lines of his face before he did so. “Oh, Mary.”

     “Mr. Holmes—is he still alive? Oh, John, what has happened?” John looked up then, and she shivered at the pain in the hazel eyes she loved so dearly.

     “He is well,” he whispered hoarsely.

     “What happened?” she said softly, peeling his coat off of him.

     “It was a trap,” he said slowly, as if in shock. “A trap for his suspect. The man tried to poison him—Holmes made him believe he had.”

     “And made Mrs. Hudson believe he had,” Mary continued as she hung up his hat and coat, casting her mind back to the landlady’s afternoon appearance, “and made… oh, _John_.”

     He shut his eyes in confirmation of her unspoken conclusion.

     “Let’s get you upstairs,” she murmured, taking his arm and pulling him gently to the staircase. Not a word was exchanged between them until Mary had him sitting on the bed sans his suit coat, his dressing gown draped over his broad shoulders. She rested her chin on his good shoulder and wrapped her arms around his waist from behind. “Now, what happened?”

     He told her. He told her the entire melodramatic affair, and his voice broke several times in describing the allegedly ill Sherlock Holmes. Her chest ached with each crack in his normally strong baritone, and she wondered how Sherlock could be so cruel, even unintentionally. She could not reconcile the idea with the man who loved her husband like a brother and loved even her like a sister.

     Then an anomaly struck her. “He wouldn’t let you near for fear that you’d uncover his deception,” she said slowly.

     “Yes…” He shifted in her embrace. “Mary, what is it?”

     “John… he let Culverton Smith near.” She frowned, not liking where her train of thought was taking her. “The man who is the specialist in these tropical diseases— _he let him near_.”

     He stiffened beneath her touch as he reached the conclusion she had. “Good heavens.”

     “John… are you absolutely _sure_ it was an _act_?”

 

 

     Sherlock Holmes struggled to cleanse himself of all emotion as he neared his destination. It was no easy thing, even for his carefully cultivated powers of detachment, to pay a visit to the man who had so nearly succeeded in murdering him and had gloried in it. And who, in doing so, had also indirectly caused a rift between two dear friends.

     Watson had not returned to Baker Street since that vile evening, and Holmes had not seen him the one time he’d visited Paddington Street. Mary had been home, however, and the care she’d taken in choosing her words told all. He had treated Watson abominably, and now he was to suffer the consequences.

     The holding cell of Culverton Smith was typical of such rooms and utterly unremarkable. The man himself was a study in emotions as the guard let Holmes into the room—incredulity, anger, and hatred passed swiftly over his tanned face before it settled into the cold hauteur Holmes had marked out for him at first sight. “My dear Holmes,” he said coolly. “Come to gloat, have you?”

     Had Smith been standing, Holmes would have had half a foot over him; since Smith was sitting on his cot, the detective towered over the pathologist. “I shall not debase myself by mimicking a multiple murderer,” Holmes said icily.

     “ _Multiple_ murder?” Smith snorted. “How on earth did you conceive _that_ notion?”

     “As you said before, cause and effect.” The detective’s grey eyes hardened to twin points of steel. “You asked me, two days ago, who asked me to cross your path. Your nephew did. He suspected you of infecting poor souls in the East End with your Asiatic diseases.”

     Smith’s black eyes widened briefly before he schooled his face into impassivity. “That one had a wild imagination.”

     Holmes chuckled mirthlessly; the sound would have sent chills down Watson’s spine had he been there to hear it. “My dear sir, seldom have I met a young man so possessed of good sense. I myself have seen you move amongst the opium dens, and I have beheld the fruits of your labour.” He leant forward. “Your victims number in the dozens, Smith, if not more. You were experimenting.”

     Smith smiled complacently—Holmes was forced to admire his audacity. “You can prove nothing. That much is obvious if you needed to feign illness in order to extract a confession from me.”

     “You were not working for your own benefit,” Holmes continued, disregarding the other’s smugness. “You had an employer. He is a wealthy man, a man who could arrange for samples of your precious diseases to be shipped in all the way from Southeast Asia. A man of influence and power. He hired you to create a swift, incurable disease.”

     As Holmes spoke, Smith’s tanned features paled by degrees. “You know nothing,” he whispered harshly.

     “On the contrary, Smith,” Holmes said softly but dangerously, “I know nearly _everything_. Nearly everything there is to know about this affair.” Between his own deductions and the telegrams of a certain informant, he could piece the puzzle together only too easily. “Your employer… was none other than Professor. James. Moriarty.”

     The flash of fear through the man’s black eyes confirmed it. “You are mad,” he bit out instead.

     Holmes straightened to his full height. “Very well. You may deny all, if you wish, but know that I shall uncover the complete truth. This is the beginning of Moriarty’s end, Smith, and it began with you.” He spun on his heel and rapped on the door to alert the guard.

     “I might not have succeeded in stopping your meddling, Holmes,” Smith snarled, “but he won’t fail to do so. Interfere, and he’ll hunt you down to the ends of the earth to finish you.” 

     The door swung open, and Holmes set one foot out into the hall beyond before glancing back over his shoulder. “My dear Smith, did it ever occur to you that, perhaps, he would do the same to you?” He left before Smith could reply.

     He had already warned the Yarders against letting anything but food and drink be passed to Culverton Smith, and, even then, the sustenance must be checked for poison. Despite those precautions, he did not believe Smith would live even to see the day of his trial.

     The next day, he was informed that Culverton Smith had died during the night of aconite poisoning.


	9. Following a Thread

     He studied the brass plate beneath the red lamp: _John H. Watson, M.D_. Reached for the doorknocker, stopped, swallowed. Grabbed the knocker and rapped out his special beat. Stepped back and waited.

_“Miss Morstan has done me the honour to accept me as a husband in prospective.”_

_“I feared as much! I really cannot congratulate you.”_

     He had never again wounded Watson so deeply… until now.

 _“You are the_ best _friend that I have ever had, and I count myself blessed to know you. I could no more walk away willingly from our friendship than you could.”_

     He had never actually apologised for what he’d said—Watson had, uncharacteristically, commandeered the conversation, and the opportunity to say “I am sorry” had been lost. Sherlock Holmes had apologised but few times in his lifetime. That… was not right.

_“I refuse to give up our friendship.”_

     He wondered if Watson would still hold to that resolution. He prayed fervently that the Doctor would.

     The door opened, revealing—miracle of miracles—Mary Jane. “I must speak with Dr. Watson, Mary Jane,” Holmes said straightaway.  “Is he home?”

     “Yessir,” said the girl, allowing him in while staring up at him with those wide green eyes. She seemed to be in perpetual awe of the man others called “the Great Detective”—Holmes found it slightly irritating after nearly two years. “I’ll go fetch him.”

     “Thank you,” Holmes deadpanned as she hurried away. Once again, the Watson’s housemaid had forgotten to take his hat and coat; he shook his head and hung them up himself. He had once wondered what had possessed the sensible John and Mary Watson to take on such a careless and absentminded maid, and then decided that compassion must have factored largely into the decision. Only someone kind-hearted enough or desperate enough would hire such a girl, and, though the Watsons were far from rich, they were certainly not desperate.

     At any other time, Holmes would have smoked a soothing pipe, but he was far too agitated to attempt to settle down. He paced the sitting room instead: five strides from the settee to the window, five strides back, four from the settee to the door, eight from the door to the opposite wall…

     He didn’t see Watson until the man was leaning on the doorjamb, his arms folded, his expression blank. “Watson!”

     “Good morning, Holmes,” Watson said evenly. He looked as tired as Holmes felt, with lines in his face and rings under his eyes. 

     Holmes resisted the urge to rush over and lay a hand on Watson’s good shoulder. “My dear fellow, you’re working yourself too hard,” he said feelingly.

     Something indefinable sparked in the hazel eyes. “I am well, Holmes.” A beat. “What is it you need?”

     This wasn’t his Watson. This was a quiet, impassive stranger. Holmes needed only one hand to count how many instances Watson had appeared thus to him. This was not the warm, spirited man he considered himself honoured to call “friend.”

     “Your forgiveness,” Holmes said at last, _sotto voce_. “Heaven knows I do not deserve it after the shameful way in which I have treated you, my dear Watson, but I ask for it nonetheless.” A hairline fracture appeared in Watson’s otherwise emotionless countenance. “Allowing you to believe such a lie was… unconscionable. I shall not attempt to excuse myself. No matter my reasoning, it was a contemptible act towards such a dear friend. Will you… will you forgive me?”

     The hardness eased out of Watson’s face, and then he merely looked tired… and a bit old. A small tombstone in a church graveyard must have contributed to that appearance. Holmes hated it; it wasn’t right for his Watson—for _either_ of his Watsons. Rarely indeed had he ever seen a couple so suited for parenthood as John and Mary were—why must their every attempt at bearing children be thwarted?

     John sighed. “Holmes, I’ve already forgiven you.”

     Holmes nearly stared. “You—”

     The other held up a hand. “That isn’t to say that all is well between us, but I forgive you. I simply… do not know if I can trust you.”

     Holmes stood ramrod-straight, knowing that he deserved far worse than broken trust and yet mourning it. “I cannot blame you.”

     Watson’s eyes slid shut, and he shook his head. “Holmes, you amaze me. On occasion, you are possessed of the most remarkable empathy, and then, without warning, you can turn into the most inconsiderate creature alive. I can never predict when you shall be one or the other.”

     “Even I cannot always predict myself,” Holmes ventured, his gaze seeking out his friend’s.

     Watson looked up with a noise between a grunt of irritation and a groan. “You truly are incorrigible, Sherlock Holmes, do you know that?”

     Holmes carefully schooled his face to keep from appearing eagerly hopeful. “I’ve heard it said many times. Half from yourself, in fact.”

     “And the other half?”

     One corner of Holmes’s mouth pulled back. “From Mycroft.”

     Watson let out a little laugh in spite of himself.  “Oh, Holmes, what am I to _do_ with you? By rights, I should be utterly _furious_ … ha! I should be chasing you around London with the Irregulars—” Holmes barked a short laugh at the embarrassing memory—“and yet I find that not only am I smiling at your incorrigibility, but I’m also dreadfully concerned about you.” His face took on that earnest doctor’s expression. “How has your recovery progressed? Are you nearly up to your usual strength? It’s true that I really don’t know how these exotic diseases work—I wasn’t well enough in India to study them properly.”

     “I’m fine, old fellow, truly,” Holmes assured him, feeling his heart leap for joy. “A bit weak and the worse for wear, perhaps, but Dr. Ainstree’s cure has worked marvellously.”

     “Ah, so it was Ainstree who helped you.”

     Holmes nodded, a shadow settling over his features. “I met him at the deathbed of young Savage.”

     “I see. I recall deducing that there’d been a death during your investigation.” Watson studied him intently for a moment. “My dear fellow, whatever is the matter?”

     Holmes turned away. “My client died, Watson—is that not enough?”

     “I know that you hate failure,” Watson said slowly, “and even more that you hate losing clients, but…”

     “If I had perhaps been swifter or had had Savage guarded,” Holmes practically spat in self-disgust, “he might yet be alive. The boy was engaged, Watson.”

     He heard the air rush out of Watson’s lungs. “I didn’t know.”

     Holmes sighed and rubbed at the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache coming on. “Of course, you did not. I did not tell you, and who else would? I promised Savage that I would inform his fiancée of his death… Watson, I wish never to do that again for as long as I live.” _I have seen and experienced enough heartbreak in my life—I have no desire to be the herald of it_.

     “My dear Holmes,” Watson murmured, laying a warm, strong hand upon Holmes’s thin shoulder.

     _Ever the healer_. Holmes quirked a small, sad smile and patted the hand. “Well, it is nearly time to open your surgery, Doctor, so I shall leave you to it.”

     Watson nodded, his thick brows knitting together as he watched Holmes don his coat and hat. “Take care of yourself, old man.”

     Holmes grabbed his walking stick, raised it to his forehead in salute, and reached for the doorknob. “Always, Watson.” He hailed a hansom and climbed in, turned back toward the house, and raised one hand in farewell.

     Watson stood in the open doorway, both hands in his pockets, his lined face troubled. A drizzle began to descend, Watson retreated inside and shut the door, and Holmes’s cab set off.

 

 

PORLOCK

REQUIRE CONFIRMATION FINAL STOP

_VERNET_

 

MR VERNET

AM SEARCHING STOP NOT INVOLVED IN THE AFFAIR STOP IS A BIT DIFFICULT FINAL STOP

_PORLOCK_

 

PORLOCK

UNDERSTOOD BUT TIME IS SHORT STOP WE MAY HAVE A CRISIS ON OUR HANDS STOP MY LADS AND I CAN DO NO MORE STOP ALL UP TO YOU NOW FINAL STOP

_VERNET_

 

MR VERNET

VERY WELL STOP I SHANT FAIL STOP SHOULD HAVE SOMETHING BY WEEKEND FINAL STOP

_PORLOCK_

 

     Wiggins rummaged through the telegrams, scanning briefly over each, and chewed at the inside of his cheek. After worrying about his mentor’s health for a week and looking after things, he felt stretched a bit thin. “You’re trusting this Porlock chap pretty far.”

     Mr. Holmes was perched on the arm of his chair. “What else am I to do, Wig?” he said wearily. “His conjectures concerning Moriarty’s goals were correct—Culverton Smith’s reactions confirmed it.”

     Wiggins turned sharply to him. “Cor, you don’t look good, sir. That dark-ringed-eye look went out with the last epidemic, you know.”

     “You may have noticed, Wiggins, that you look scarcely better. How much sleep have you been getting lately?”

     “How much sleep have _you_ been getting lately?”

     “I can function quite well on minimal rest, thank you.”

     “In full health, yes. After that coalie—”

     “ _Coolie_.”

     “After that _coolie_ disease? Debatable.”

     Mr. Holmes pressed his lips together briefly. “Wiggins, you—” Wiggins watched as his mentor almost visibly reined in his irritation; the man was most definitely worn out. Sherlock Holmes’s infamous self-control very rarely allowed a display of temper. Anger was useful at times—temper, never so.

     “All right, all right, I apologise.” Wiggins sighed. “Sir, I’m simply… I’m worried. You gave us all a proper scare, sir, and Dr. Ainstree did tell me that your fever _could_ return if you’re not careful of your health.”

     Mr. Holmes shook his head. “I haven’t time to rest properly, my dear boy—the Professor shan’t give me that time. Every hour, every minute, is precious.” He slid from the arm of the chair down onto the seat cushion and propped his chin with his fist. “You have nothing new from your contacts.”

     Wiggins rearranged the telegrams into their proper order and shook his head. “’Fraid so.” That failure to collect pertinent information left a sour taste in his mouth, however blameless he was for it. He hated investigating Moriarty cases—the mathematician was slyer than a ten-year-old pickpocket and slipperier than the East End docks. Of course, it was the reason the man had never been behind bars, defying Sherlock Holmes’s best efforts to trace crimes solidly back to him. Professor Moriarty was a man with as great a brain as Wiggins’s employer, and Wiggins well knew that Mr. Holmes could be a criminal on par with Moriarty himself if he so chose.

     Mr. Holmes took out his black clay pipe, a sign that the man was ready to allow himself to relax a bit. “Very well, then. Why don’t you go home and get some rest yourself, my boy? I shall call you if you’re needed.”

     Wiggins stood and stifled a yawn. “If you’re sure…”

     “I am sure. Go home, Wiggins.”

     “Right. Afternoon, then, sir.” Another yawn escaped the younger man’s defences this time. “I’ll call round tomorrow.”

     “Good afternoon to you, my lad.”

     Wiggins was downstairs and bidding Mrs. Hudson farewell when violin music wafted down from the sitting room. It was a low, sad tune, penetrated by a longing for something… or mourning for something lost. It lingered in his mind as he turned his footsteps homeward in the pale sunlight briefly breaking through London’s grey skies.

 

 

     The watery daylight has given way to nocturnal fog rolling up from the Thames, cloaking the city in a damp chill. This is the weather of assaults and murders. A man can slip from one point to another, virtually invisible to passers-by in the midst of a London Particular.

     It is perfect for the work Sherlock Holmes has intended.

     Fred Porlock has discovered the location of the warehouse in which the smugglers store their contraband, and Holmes has discovered that one of the entrances is unguarded. The poor fool responsible shall rue that mistake. It is a small, unassuming door opening out to a narrow alley, but it is all Holmes needs.

     He settles before the door and draws out his burgling kit. Selecting his tools, he sets to work at the padlock, with only a small beam of light from his dark lantern. He’s as good a burglar as the best of them—fortunately for Scotland Yard, his morals allow for these skills to be used only upon occasions such as this.

     The night air seeps in past his greatcoat and chills him. Winter is very near.

     Winter is not the same in London as it is in Essex. The snow here is grey, not the clean white of the countryside. Sometimes, in spite of himself, Holmes misses the crisp winters of his early years. Then he catches himself and dismisses all such notions as sentimentality, unnecessary and unwanted to the consummate logician.

     He once expressed that opinion to Mary Watson. Her reply was quiet: “To be the perfect logician is to deny yourself your humanity. And you, Sherlock Holmes, are very human.” It remains the boldest thing she has ever said to him.

     The lock clicks open. Holmes eases the door open gently and slips inside, possessing but a vague idea of what he is seeking. He can only search the shelves of the warehouse one by one, and that may well take one or two more trips. It is roughly two hours past midnight, and he is determined to leave no later than four o’clock.

 

 

     Two hours later, his search has proven fruitless thus far, and he has come only a third of the way through the warehouse. Two more trips, certainly, to cover the entire building, and pray God his quarry shan’t be removed before then.

     Four in the morning is a good time to slip through the city unnoticed. The drunks are generally home by this time, and earliest workers will not be out for another hour. Four in the morning is a rare moment of quiet in London.

     Thus, Holmes’s sharp ears detect the footfalls of two men following him, though he cannot see them in the fog. Professional trackers, then, for he knows he is supremely difficult to follow at the best of times, and well nigh impossible in the midst of a London Particular.

     As cautious and swift as he is, he cannot shake off his pursuers through the alleys and byways of Rotherhithe, and he soon hears more men. Three… four… six… nine… eleven… a full dozen…

     The fog lifts by degrees, and, without warning, they assault him all at once. Too many for him to take on alone, he knows, but that will not stop him from trying valiantly. His calculating brain takes a backseat to pure instinct, honed to a knife’s edge from childhood.

     _“Fists up, Sherlock.”_

     He ducks one sweeping arm, takes a blow to the stomach, lands a punch of his own in another’s face.

     _“Don’t spin. Always be facing me, little brother.”_

     He is fast, and he is fierce. He is magnificent.

_“ **Aaugh** —that was a good hit, Sherlock. Too good.”_

     But he is only one man. And this time, one man is not enough.

     One blow slips past his guard to his left side as he tries to avoid strikes from every direction all at once. Another nicks his right arm, followed by a kick to his right shin. The blows are furious, coming over and over and over without stopping, and there is only so much even he can take before inevitably he crumples beneath the relentless barrage.

     He can only lie there, facedown, on the ground, his body far too battered to rally again.

     His breath once again comes in ragged gasps, harsh to his sensitive ears. It has been but a week since he took Ainstree’s cure to Smith’s disease; the memories are still quite fresh, and his body has not yet fully recovered. A knee plants itself in the small of his back, pinning him painfully in place; only a hint of a whimper eludes his iron self-control. His arms are wrenched back suddenly and forcefully, eliciting a gasp as agony shoots through the captive limbs. Cold metal quickly shackles his wrists together.

     His head is seized by the hair and yanked up, and a rag is bound around his head, sealing his mouth shut. The rag tastes of filth, making his stomach revolt violently. At last, he hears a voice. “Well, well. So the Great Meddler _can_ be brought to heel.” The smug voice sparks rough laughter, and, for a fleeting moment, he hates both. But hatred blinds logic, so he banishes all trace of the sensation to the dark recesses of his mind.

     He is dragged upright to a vaguely standing position—his legs cannot currently support his weight, so he is held in place by two of his attackers. The man before him, a dockworker by his clothes but an educated man by his manner, is obviously the leader. “Who would have thought it would be so easy?”

     He ignores the sneer and glances down, significantly, to draw the other’s attention there. Two men lie sprawled on the ground, unmoving, quite obviously dead. He then looks up with a challenging gleam in his eyes. It was not _that_ easy.

     The other man snarls and strikes him hard across the face, his head snapping back at the ferocity of the blow. “Crow all you want, Holmes—it’s your last chance. You’ve gone too far this time, and now you’re finished.” Culverton Smith said much the same a week ago, but the circumstances are far removed from 221B and the aid of Scotland Yard.

     A cloth drops over his face, and he struggles, feebly, beneath the fabric’s sickening smell. It is chloroform.

     The last thing he remembers is wishing that he’d not gone out alone…


End file.
